Harebrained
by Acacia24
Summary: If that clown could have a henchwoman, then so could he, Tetch mused. It would be unethical. But, on the other hand, it would be nice to have a partner in crime. And, after all, it was her choice, not his.
1. Cuckoo's Got A Temper

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Dr. Joan Leland, Jonathan Crane, Joker and Jervis Tetch. They belong to DC Comics and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own any of the quoted poems used in this chapter. Those belong to Robert Burns ("Comin' Through the Rye"), Samuel Taylor Coleridge ("Rime of the Ancient Mariner"), T.S. Eliot ("The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"), William Blake ("The Lamb") and Lewis Carroll ("The Walrus and the Carpenter"). **

Dr. Joan Leland glanced at her watch. In five minutes she would meeting Arkham's newest resident. She had already prepared herself for this meeting by pouring over her patient's file. _Harriet March. Age 28._ Dr. Leland glanced at the mug shot that had been paper-clipped onto the first page of the file along with newspaper clippings. Long, egg-shaped face. Brown hair in untamed disarray. Brown eyes. _Frantic _eyes. Lips partially opened in crazed astonishment. She was mildly good-looking; she would have been beautiful had it not been for those two large front teeth that marred that mouth. Dr. Leland reread her client's history. _Parents deceased. Worked at Liddell's Antiques and Tearoom from 1989 to 1992. Attended Gotham University until expulsion_. Dr. Leland raised an eyebrow. Expelled for what? She frowned and drew a question mark next to this piece of information. _Formally engaged to Lawrence Frizzel. _

Dr. Leland did not bother reading the rest of the file. She knew that that the jilted woman tracked down Frizzel. Witnesses claimed that March struck him repeatedly with a- What was it? Dr. Leland's eyes flicked down at the file. Oh, yes, with an eighteenth century walking stick that she had stolen from the antique shop. All while singing, _"Gin a body kiss a body, need a body cry?" _A line from Robert Burn's "Comin' Through the Rye." She herself wasn't familiar with that poem, but others had quickly identified the citation. The doctor also heard about the trial, how Harriet March sputtered lines from literature whenever being asked a question. Obviously a defense mechanism.

Truthfully, she wasn't that troubled by Harriet March's past. Even her habit of spouting random poems wasn't that unusual. After all, Jonathan Crane had his nursery rhymes and that new fellow, Jervis Tetch, often quoted Lewis Carroll. Harriet's crimes seemed almost dull in comparison to the other inmates of Arkham. But Arkham had a strange effect on people; it always did more harm than good. She had seen it many times before. Perhaps it was the asylum's dark history; perhaps it was the result of being relentlessly exposed to the insane. Whatever the reason, this place could turn a mildly sickened mind into something quite horrendous; it could even warp the minds of the healthy.

"Dr. Leland?"

Her head shot up. Two orderlies were escorting a woman garbed in a light blue-gray uniform. The doctor quickly cleared away the files so that her patient would have no idea that she had been studying her profile. "Yes, yes, come in, Ms. March, and make yourself comfortable." She gestured towards the couch. Harriet took a cautious step forward, reminding Dr. Leland of a rabbit emerging from the shrubs. Her vigilant eyes rested briefly on the security cameras, and then focused on Dr. Leland. She swiftly took a seat.

"How are you today, Ms. March?" No response. "Ms. March? Did you hear me?"

Harriet murmured, "_Instead of a cross, an albatross, about my neck was hung." _

Dr. Leland scooted to the edge of her chair. "Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner?" she guessed. The patient nodded. "Byron?"

"Coleridge," Harriet corrected.

"I'm not much of a poetry person, I'm afraid." A pen clicked as the psychiatrist brought it down to the notepad. "Tell me, why did you just recite those lines?"

"I often recite poetry whenever I'm agitated. Or annoyed." She grimaced at the sound of the pen scratching into paper. Writing, writing, writing… Writing about _her_… Harriet studied the lamp that sat in the corner of Dr. Leland's desk. How easy it would be to just grab it and strike the doctor senseless. Then she could flee from this horrible place that looked like some haunted house at an amusement park. And then the noise stopped. Harriet blinked and came back to her senses.

"Do you get…_agitated_ often?" Dr. Leland prompted. "Are you agitated _now_?"

"_And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, when I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, then how should I begin to spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways_?"

"Are you agitated now?" the doctor repeated.

Harriet raised an eyebrow. Of course she was agitated. What a stupid thing to ask. "I don't like being studied. I'm just an insect on display. That notepad of yours. If I say something wrong, you'll just write it down. And then I'm stuck here. Permanently."

The psychiatrist's lips twitched. "I'll take that as a yes. But at least you seem to understand that what you're doing is nothing more than a mental form of self defense. That's a good sign, Ms. March. A very good sign." She put aside the notepad. "I'll make a deal with you. No more note-taking for today. We'll just talk. So-" she crossed her legs "-I heard that you attended Gotham University."

"I was only there three years," Harriet paused. "I was an English major."

"Did you graduate?"

"No."

"Why is that?" When Harriet failed to give details, Dr. Leland raised her fingers to her temple. "Ms. March, you must talk to me if you want to get well again."

Harriet met Dr. Leland's gaze in cold belligerence, far from the tense creature she had been just moments ago. "Surely the file will tell you that I was expelled." Her lips pulled back, revealing her bone-white teeth as she cast a sardonic smile. "Oh, yes, I'm sure you've got a lovely little file all tucked away, filled with juicy information about the crackpot you now see before you."

Dr. Leland remained composed and unruffled during the sudden change of temperament. "Ms. March, I'm only trying to help you." She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. "There _is_ a file, I'll admit, and it does in fact mention your expulsion. I would just like to know _why_."

Harriet blinked and reverted back to her refined self. She raised her hands in a contrite gesture of civility. "You're right. You're absolutely right. It... Wasn't very civil of me. I'm really not like this."

"I know you're not."

"And I want to get well again. The truth is that I broke into a campus building."

The doctor's façade was unresponsive. "Go on."

Harriet's thin body twitched. "One of my professors- Dr. Chesterfield- had insulted me, made me look like a fool in front of the entire class, simply because he disagreed with my thoughts on _Hamlet. _So I decided to be like Claudius and drip poison in his ear…" She shrugged her shoulders. "I heard that there were poisonous extracts in the Botany department. But I started to come to my senses… I might be crazy. I might be a thief. But I am _not _a killer. So I left. Funny really. I wasn't caught sneaking into the science lab, but I was caught sneaking out of it. The security guard thought I was looking for things of value- What could possibly be valuable inside a silence lab is _beyond_ my imagination. So I was expelled." Harriet began to nibble at her fingernails. Unexpectedly she added, "_He _survived, you know."

"Dr. Chesterfield?"

"No. Lawrence. He survived."

"Yes," Dr. Leland replied gravely. "But he suffered from a rather serious concussion. Broken nose. Two broken ribs. Multiple bruises." She managed to keep her stoic expression.

"I never meant to _kill_ him!" Harriet shook her head defiantly. "I only wanted to _hurt_ him!" She now had a lock of her hair in her mouth. She chewed it, pulled it out and studied it. The strand was wet with saliva. "_He is meek and he is mild. He became a little child." _

"Tell me about your family."

"I don't have any."

"Friends?"

"My only friends, doctor, are fictional characters out of books."

Dr. Leland then glanced down at her watch. "I'm afraid that I didn't schedule a very long session for today, Ms. March." She put a consoling hand on Harriet's shoulder and said routinely. "But we will talk again soon. You've made progress today and you'll be in the outside world before you know it. It's been a pleasure speaking with you, Harriet." She stretched out a hand.

Harriet steadily rose from her seat, once again starched and composed. She eyed the offered hand with contempt. "Don't act like we're equals, Dr. Leland. You think that I'm beneath you. A poor, pathetic little patient with a sick mind that needs mending. You, with your diplomas and your awards-" She jerked her head towards the wall that held all the psychiatrist's achievements. "Showing off your healthy, stable mind. Giving me patronizing encouragement as though I'm supposed to be grateful."

A pair of orderlies appeared and accompanied Harriet down the ward that housed the high profile residents. They had watched when she had been summoned to Dr. Leland's office and they were watching her now as she left it. Their expressions ranged from contempt to shear boredom. Harriet could practically hear their thoughts. Oh, she might be crazy enough to be in Arkham, but she was nowhere near _their_ league. Harriet tried not to notice, tried to focus solely on her feet as she walked down the seemingly unending hallway, but they were still _there_, lurking in the corners of her eyes. It would have been easier had it been dark; that way she wouldn't be able to see _them_ and, more importantly, they wouldn't be able to see _her. _If only it wasn't so garishly bright!

She involuntarily began to chant. "_The sun was shining on the sea, shining with all his might-" _

"Keep talking like that, Sweet-cheeks," interrupted a voice coming from inside one of the cells, "and people might just start to think that you're bonkers…" It cackled manically, wildly, dementedly. She would have covered her ears had the orderlies not been gripping her arms. And it didn't stop. It keep becoming more and more shrill, as though the speaker was inhaling helium. It was worse than that infernal pen scratching done by the doctor's own hand. Her frustration began to increase, rising and rising like the tide. And then Harriet's teeth unexpectedly clamped down on one of the orderly's arm. She tasted salty skin. And blood. He released her. Harriet took advantage of the other man's alarm, kicking him in the gut. And then, with the force of a battering ram, struck her head against the glass in front of the cackling madman's cell.

"Hoo hoo hoo! Cuckoo's got a temper!" She heard the delighted applause; Harriet slammed against the pane once again. "No use, Looney Toons. Glass is unbreakable." Harriet staggered back, on hand clasped over a bruised forehead. "Aww… Has Shnookums got a heady-ache?"

Security guards were now darting forward, some of them holding Harriet's body still; others attempting to put a straight jacket on her. Dr. Leland had rushed out into the hallway and shook her head in disappointment. And then came the pepper spray that burned her eyes, yet mercifully blinded her. She was again dragged down the corridor.

Her dictation now became even more frenzied, practically screaming the words as she resumed with The Walrus and the Carpenter. "_HE DID HIS VERY BEST TO MAKE THE BILLOWS SMOOTH AND BRIGHT!"_

Again a voice drifted out, a different voice, one that was low, genteel, and, judging by the way it pronounced its words, educated. "_And this was odd, because it was the middle of the night." _

_Author's Note: Some time ago a friend and I watched a few episodes of Batman: the Animated Series. I remember loving it when I was a kid, and now, as an adult, I realize just how brilliant that show actually was. The dark humor, the witty dialogue… I especially loved the Mad as a Hatter episode. I guess that's what prompted me to write this story. That and the episode that explained how Harleen Quinzel became Harley Quinn. _

_You see, I thought that the Mad Hatter needed a partner in crime. _

_I 'm basically writing this story for my own personal amusement, and I must admit that I'm having a whole lot of fun with it._


	2. Ickle Maddie Hattie

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Jervis Tetch, Jonathan Crane, Harley Quinn, Joker and Poison Ivy. They belong to DC Comics and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own the quoted poem used in this chapter. "Beautiful Soup" belongs to Lewis Carroll. **

The Arkham Asylum was like some nightmarish high school. Instead of teachers patrolling the hallways, there were armed guards. Up and down the halls they went, like sentinels. Instead of detention, these people could throw you in isolation if you acted up, or, if they were feeling particularly sadistic, could even beat you because corporal punishment was allowed here. The face, the neck, the stomach... _Where _they struck you simply did not matter to them. Jervis Tetch rubbed the back of his head. He distinctly remembered the smack he got after refusing to remove his clothes for a strip search. The lump was gone- It had been for weeks- but his face still became a blotchy shade of red upon remembering the indignation of being thoroughly exposed and examined. Privacy, he soon learned, was a thing of the past. The showers were opened showers. The toilets were there in the cell and, since the cells were barred by clear glass, anyone could look in on you. And the odors that wafted out from certain cells were appalling. It was a combination of sweat, body odor and human excrement; the Englishman gagged the first time he breathed in the stench.

It was indeed a long, long way to fall. He once reigned supreme and could have controlled all of Gotham had he wanted to. Only he didn't want to. All he wanted was to live happily with Alice by his side. But then Batman dethroned him, took away his queen and then took away his power. And without his mind control device, the Mad Hatter was indeed defenseless.

There was a newspaper article about the incident. A guard, just for the sake of being callous, read the piece out loud days after it appeared. The whole thing was highly exaggerated; it made the Mad Hatter look as criminal as the Joker. "Not too popular, are you?" the guard sneered after he read the first few paragraphs. "Lookee here…" He began to read again. "'_He's a menace to society_,' _claimed a victim who had been forced to dress up as a lizard. _'_It's unfortunate, but hopefully Mr. Tetch will recover and return to Wayne Enterprises_,' _stated former employer Bruce Wayne. Dr. Marsha Cates declared that the whole thing was the act of-_' You listening, Tetch? _'-a delusional, childlike man who kidnapped a bunch of innocent people, all for a game of make-believe._'" The guard lowered the newspaper. "Well, I've got to say that I agree with her, Tetch. I mean, there are a bunch of costumed freaks in this city… Clowns, cats, bats… But a character from a kiddy book?" He shook his head in disgust. "Kind of childish, if you ask me." He began to laugh and, in a mocking, babyish tone, added. "Would ickle Maddie Hattie like to see the pretty pictures?" The guard pressed the article against the glass. There it was, underneath the headline that read: Batman Captures Mad Hatter. A photo of him, ensnared by the Jabberwocky's claws, looking utterly defeated and pitiful.

Jervis now sighed. He really _was_ reliving his schooldays. After all, he was the same powerless fellow who was bullied in school as a boy, terrorized for being bookish and smart, shunned by girls, pummeled in gym class and ridiculed in locker rooms. The other kids disdained him for his intellect, all while the teachers commended him for it.

Only now… Only now the roles were reversed in this ghastly Wonderland. After the guard had read the article, an inmate in the opposite cell appeared behind the glass. He was tall and lanky, reminding the Mad Hatter of another literary character: Ichabod Crane.

"That true?" the thin man asked casually. "You found a way to control minds?" Jervis nodded. "And what about the bit about hacking off Batman's head? Is that true also?" He reluctantly admitted that it was. The other inmate looked mildly impressed. "Good for you."

Jervis then realized that those in charge might despise him, but his fellow inmates did not. Of course, it had not been like that the first few days. Jervis was the just lowest rung on the ladder then. He was a mere nobody and attempted to lie low. But soon word had spread and the inmates began to whisper amongst themselves, and, in doing so, Jervis unintentionally advanced higher and higher in the social hierarchy amongst Arkham prisoners. There were the cliques here at Arkham, but instead of jocks and geeks, there were psychotic masterminds and delusional madman. It was the members of Rouge Gallery who ruled the asylum; they were the popular kids and the other inmates regarded them in worshipful admiration. And when it was revealed that the newest inmate had been apprehended by Batman himself, even _they _began to regard Jervis differently. He knew that it was wrong of him. He knew that what he did was unethical and that it would be unwise to connect with such people. But the idea of being accepted and admired was indeed tempting, even if it were lunatics who did the admiring…

Mind control. Forcing innocent people to do his bidding. Almost chopping off the Cape Crusader's head… It _was_ quite impressive, Jervis thought to himself and a rare sense of pride swelled inside him.

Guards now ushered them out of their cells. Eight o'clock. Time for breakfast. They routinely lined up in the hallway and were escorted down the stairs and into the lunchroom. Another similarity to high school: the lunchroom was exactly like a cafeteria, only the inmates were segregated; men on the right and women on the left. They waited in line for their meal, each one holding a tray along with a plastic spoon. Metal utensils were prohibited.

There was a new server, Jervis observed. Rough looking fellow. Heavily muscled, but not too intelligent looking. The man was likely a former inmate of Stonegate. He ladled out a foul, pea-colored substance, pouring it into each and every bowl.

Jonathon Crane, standing ahead of him, looked down at the slop with repulsion. "What," he asked, "is this?"

"_That,_" the server grunted, "is your breakfast. So shut up and eat up, whoever you are."

A small smile tugged at Crane's thin lips. "You _really _don't know who _I _am, do you?"

"Sure I do. You're a freak."

"And you are a fool." Crane's voice was low and waspish. "An erroneous, dim-witted buffoon. You should be genuflecting before me. You should be paying homage to me. You should be singing glorious praises to me. Me! Scarecrow, the god of fear!"

The attendant smirked. "Yeah, you've got me trembling in fear all right."

Knowing Crane's extreme pride, Jervis almost expected him to go ballistic. Only he didn't. He merely stood there placidly, his small smile expanding into a conniving, toothy grin.

"_Pease porridge hot_," Crane began to softly chant. Each word said was said with chilling emphasis. The server again smirked at the man reciting nursery rhymes, but there was really nothing childish about it. It was as though Crane was muttering some threatening incantation. "_Pease porridge cold_." Crane's mad, dark eyes penetrated into the server's. "_Pease porridge in a pot." _The server was now at last showing signs of being unnerved; he was fidgeting and looking anxiously from left to right, trying to make eye contact with one of the guards. Crane slowly and obscenely licked his lips. "_Nine days old_." He observed the server with satisfaction before taking his tray, whistling cheerfully as he did so.

Now it was Jervis's turn. The server ladled the disgusting substance into his bowl, half of it spilling onto the tray because of his trembling. Next time, Jervis told himself, he would make sure to stand in _front _of Crane.

He took an apple, a slice of cold, unbuttered toast and a carton of orange juice before taking a seat beside Crane. Jervis, like Crane, was disgusted by the asylum's menus. But what did he expect for breakfast? An omelet and sausages, served with a cup of tea?

"_Beautiful Soup, so rich and green, waiting in a hot tureen," _he began wistfully. Jervis took a spoonful, turned it over and allowed it to plop back into the bowl with a revolting splatter. He wasn't even sure if this _was _soup. Whatever it was, it was far from beautiful.

"Must you?" Crane asked snappishly.

Jervis smiled pleasantly at his friend's annoyance, but did not reply. His attentive eyes fell upon the women who were lined up and he noticed the young, Carroll-spouting inmate that he had seen the night before. She was waiting for her meal, the tray tucked underneath her arm as she repetitively rubbed at her eyes. Jervis could see that they were inflamed. There was also a large, plum-colored bruise on her forehead. Damn that psychotic clown, he thought. Damn him for provoking her.

"Gelotophobia…" Crane muttered calculatingly to himself. "Scopophobia, that's another possibility… Maybe even Coulrophobia…" Jervis glanced over at him. Crane's thin arms were folded across his chest. He too was ignoring his meal, instead choosing to scrutinize the young woman.

"I'm just curious to know why she acted the way she did," he said to Jervis in explanation, trying to act like a psychologist doing a diagnosis. The attempt failed. Crane could not hide his insatiable expression whenever he watched somebody else's terror.

Jervis shook his head. He was still unable to understand the Scarecrow's obsession with phobias, or the "art of fear" as Crane liked to put it. But, then again, he couldn't understand Poison Ivy's obsession with plants or Harley Quinn's obsession with the Joker. Perhaps they felt the same way about him and his obsession with Alice in Wonderland.

Jervis smiled to himself.

We're all mad here, he thought.

_Author's Note: __I've grown to absolutely love Scarecrow… There is something extremely disturbing about a grown man reciting nursery rhymes… Also one of the greatest lines from the entire series was his "Worship me, fools! Worship me! Scream hosannas of anguish…" _

_Gelotophobia is the fear of being laughed at. Scopophobia is the fear of being stared at. Coulrophobia is the fear of clowns._


	3. For You, Tooth Fairy

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy. They belong to DC Comics and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own the quoted poems used in this chapter. Those belong to Edgar Allen Poe ("The Bells") and William Blake ("The Tyger"). **

"_Hear the loud alarum bell," _Harriet muttered. _"What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells." _Her heart was undeniably thundering like a church bell. At least her eyes were no longer streaming. They had taken her to the infirmary where a nurse had flushed them out with water, but the pain still lingered. That was a mere trifle in comparison to the terror of being exposed to the other inmates for the very first time. Harriet recalled certain newspaper articles she had read, articles about notorious lunatics apprehended and sent to Arkham. The Joker, for starters. Harriet's trembling fingers gingerly touched the bruise on her forehead. Was the Joker the very same fellow who had caused her to react so hysterically yesterday night? She hadn't taken the time to even look at the laughing madman. It probably _was_ the Clown Prince. Who else was in that corridor? Certain names stuck out: Two-Face, Poison Ivy, Scarecrow… Crazed murderers, schizophrenics, deranged criminals… She remembered the grisly details about their crimes. It seemed as though almost everyone within the vicinity was watching her. And there she was, about to eat breakfast with them.

Harriet meekly accepted her meal, She was careful not to make contact with the women that surrounded her. Heavily scarred and heavily muscled. Some of them were brawnier than most men, their veins popping out like the little blue rivers drawn on a map. They looked as though they could snap her bones in right in half. Harriet scanned the lunchroom, attempting to find the least intimidating-looking person to sit down by. She noticed two women who were seated slightly apart from the others. One was blonde-haired, blue-eyed and pretty, but her pigtailed hairdo made her look an overgrown schoolgirl. The other was redheaded, elegant and glamorous despite the fact that she was garbed in the standard uniform. It seemed absurd that these two women were in Arkham; they looked more like sorority sisters than they did asylum inmates. Harriet wondered why the others were giving them such a wide berth. The redhead subsequently became aware of Harriet's stares and her delicate face turned hostile, her mistletoe-colored eyes narrowing into slits. The blonde, also aware of the newcomer, stood up. "Take a picture, it'll last longer." Harriet quickly mumbled an apology.

She seated herself at the furthest end of the table. Immediately the vacant seat next to her was taken by a woman whose tall, lean figure reminded Harriet of a razorblade Harriet gave her an sideways glance, trying to discreetly appraise her. The woman's head had been shaved and she was covered with tattoos that depicted horrid things: skulls, scorpions, a decapitated tiger head with arrows sticking out of it, an octopus with its tentacles groping in eight different directions. The woman turned, catching Harriet's eye.

Harriet smiled weakly. "Good morning."

The woman did not bother with salutations. "You're new here."

"Oh…well, yes. Yes, I am."

The tattooed lady began to stab at the greenish paste with her fork. Harriet watched in horrid fascination. Good Lord, she thought. I wonder if she stabbed anyone like that in real life?

"_They are neither man nor woman,_" she whispered and she involuntarily began shredding the paper napkins._ "They are neither brute nor human." _Little trimmings drifted to the ground like salt from a saltshaker.

"What's that? What the hell are you saying?"

"It's…" Harriet faltered. "Never mind." She sincerely doubted if this woman would appreciate, let alone understand, the works of Poe. Her eyes flicked towards the wall; mercifully there was an armed guard standing less than three feet away. Feeling quite safe, she stopped jittering. "My name is Harriet."

"Flannery. Just Flannery." She guzzled down her carton of juice and then wiped her mouth with her sleeve. "So what did you do to get sent here?"

It was mere chitchat and Harriet saw no reason why she shouldn't answer. "I attacked my ex-boyfriend. Broke a couple of his ribs." She nibbled at her toast; it was dry.

"And they sent you _here_?" Flannery scoffed.

"I was, um, singing when it happened. Apparently very enthusiastically too, at least that's what the witnesses said." Why, Harriet mentally asked herself as she took another bite of toast, couldn't they have butter or jam?

"He was cheating, wasn't he?" Flannery demanded.

Harriet shrugged. "I honestly don't know."

"It wouldn't surprise me if he was," Flannery said gruffly. "Men are all alike. Scumbags, each and every one of them. Take the shit-head I was with. Fooling around with some blonde bimbo. I got sent here because of _him_." Her fist unexpectedly slammed against the table, making the entire thing rattle. "Well? Aren't you even going to ask _why _I was sent to Arkham?"

Harriet had jumped when Flannery's hand made contact with the table; the last thing she wanted was that very same fist to collide into her face. "All right, all right… Why were you sent to Arkham?"

Flannery, pleased with Harriet's hasty reaction, leaned forward. "They said that she was a figment of my imagination," she began quietly. It was like the opening to some ghost story. "That she didn't exist Oh, but I _knew_… I _knew _that she _was_ real and I _knew _that he _was_ cheating on me. So I waited for him to come home, tied him to a chair, and-" Flannery paused to smile ghoulishly "-_and yanked out all of his teeth with a pair of pliers_. I later made a necklace out of those teeth," Flannery proudly added.

The conversation went downhill after that.

Breakfast was over at the end of the hour. The men had already been escorted out and now the women were about to be evacuated. Harriet gathered together her trash, stood up and then, to her surprise, collided into another inmate. Both Harriet and this woman dropped their trays. An unfinished carton of juice had splattered onto the woman's top; the rest formed an orange puddle on the floor.

"Look at what you just did" she snarled, gesturing towards her stained shirt.

Harriet looked up and saw that she had angered a giantess. "_How the danger sinks and swells, by the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells…" _Harriet gulped. She had been so careful to avoid making contact and had the feeling that this woman bumped into her intentionally. She wisely kept that notion to herself. "I'm really… _quite _sorry…" Harriet snatched a handful of napkins. "Here, let me…" She began to mop up the spilled drink.

Flannery stopped her. "What the hell are you doing? _She _bumped into _you! _Why don't you teach her a lesson?"

The giantess cracked her knuckles threateningly.

"No, really, it's all right."

"You don't understand," Flannery said and her tone became malicious. "_You need to teach her a lesson." _

Harriet backed away; someone pushed her forward again. She ultimately realized that fifteen or so inmates had formed a ring around them. Harriet then realized exactly what was happening. They were the spectators at the arena, and she and this woman were the star attractions. Harriet cried out in desperation," But I don'tknow how to fight!"

"Then I guess you're going to get your ass kicked," Flannery answered indifferently.

The giantess then took a swing at her; Harriet dodged. She backed away again, one hand raised in self-defense, as though that could possibly ward off this enormous woman. Harriet glanced around wildly, looking for a guard, an ally, anyone to help her. There were only a few guards left in the lunchroom and they were merely watching. Additional spectators at the Coliseum.

"Twenty bucks that the big one knocks the skinny one flat in less than five minutes," said one.

The other answered, "You're on. I'll say it'll take at least ten. She's pretty quick. Strong too. She's the one who attacked Jack Knight and Kingsley Bishop yesterday."

Harriet's attacker took advantage of her opponent's lack of concentration by aiming a punch at her. Harriet barely had time to react. She dodged, but was not quite quick enough to avoid the assault altogether. Luckily she nailed in the shoulder and not the face. But the impact sent her crashing into the table. Her head struck the corner; a thin stream of warm blood began to trickle down her neck. Harriet touched the wound, let out a small hiss of pain and withdrew her hand, staring down at the red liquid that stained her fingers. No one was going to prevent this woman from beating her senseless. What was she to do? Submissively allow herself to get battered like some human punching bag? No, Harriet thought and she gritted her teeth, rising to her feet. She forgot about her gashed head; she forgot about the blood. A surge of fury rushed through her like turbulent waters. She stopped trembling like some pathetic, bullied child and faced her opponent. "_And when thy heart began to beat," _Harriet snarled with the ferocity of a tigress. The giantess came barreling forward. With surprising nimbleness, Harriet sidestepped the attack. The woman, outraged at hitting nothing but air, challengingly turned. This time Harriet was prepared. Her long-fingered hand darted out, directly jabbing into the giantess's throat. Harriet resumed with the poem. "_What dread hand and what dread feet?" _The woman dropped to her knees, clutching at her neck with a strangled wheeze as she began to gasp for breath. Harriet lunged forward, repeatedly punching the giantess with one hand while the other groped around the table. At last she found what she had been searching for. Harriet took the remnants of someone's breakfast and smashed the glob into the giantess's face. Streaks of green mixed with the streaks of red, making her face look like some badly painted canvas. Harriet backed off then, cordially allowing her opponent the chance to rise to her feet. Only it didn't happen. The giantess rolled over and spat out a tooth.

There was an unsettling silence. Harriet glanced down at her knuckles as though those hands belonged to a stranger. There was blood on them and for a horrible moment she felt like Lady Macbeth. The fact that she had won sunk in. It's not possible, Harriet thought. She was the same person who evaded bullies by doing their homework for them or taking refuge in the library. Yet fighting had come so naturally to her. She became aware that the other inmates were giving her looks of awe.

Harriet did not smile. Others might have smiled victoriously upon defeating a giant, but not her. There was nothing glorious about what she just did. Harriet composedly knelt down next to the giantess. "You have no one to blame but yourself, you know," she said quietly. "After all, I didn't want to fight." Harriet then retrieved the molar. Handing it to Flannery, she said scathingly, "For you, Tooth Fairy. Add this to your collection."


	4. Like the Windmill Guy

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Harley Quinn, Mad Hatter, Joker or Scarecrow. They belong to DC Comics and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own the quoted poem used in this chapter. That one belongs to Edwin Arlington Robinson ("Miniver Cheevy"), **

Some Saturday morning cartoon featuring two rabbits blared on the television screen. Harley sat cross-legged on the couch. She let out a shrill screech of laughter when the girl bunny threw a pie into the boy bunny's face. Jervis smiled- not at the cartoon (he detested the animation, so uncouth in comparison to the illustrations of John Tenniel)- but rather at the blonde woman. She was like a kid at the matinee. An engaging child, Jervis thought. But so terribly, utterly confused. He admittedly _was _fond of Miss Quinn. But no, he did not harbor romantic feels for her. She was only a child, a delusional and confused little girl hopelessly in love. The Joker had escaped Arkham weeks ago and Harley patiently waited for him to come back for her, talking continuously about her ever faithful "Puddin'." Jervis knew enough about the Joker to realize that he probably _would _come back for Harley, but only when it was convenient for him. In other words, when he had some diabolical scheme planned and needed her assistance. And that dismantled child would gladly throw herself into his arms and willingly put herself in danger just to make him happy.

The other inmates told tales about how the Joker had brainwashed Harley Quinzel years ago. They said that she was once a psychiatrist and an upstanding citizen. That is, until the Joker warped her mind. Jervis shook his head, appalled by the slight similarity between him and the Joker. Yes, it was true that he had brainwashed Alice, but he did it for _her_, for _them_. He never would have harmed her. He had sacrificed everything for Alice: his career, his freedom, even his mind.

Perhaps that was why he was so sympathetic towards Miss Quinn. She too forfeited her freedom and her sanity. And in exchanged she served as the Joker's minion. Poor child, Jervis thought. She really does love the Joker. If only she knew that she was nothing more than a disposable glove to him.

Jervis reframed from letting his views be known. Better to let Miss Quinn live in a world of fantasy than break that poor thing's heart.

But the worst part- _the very worst part_- was the fact that even that treacherous, unworthy clown possessed something that he, Jervis, could only dream off: a woman's unquestionable love. And the Joker didn't even have the decency to appreciate it.

Jervis shook his head, clearing away his jealous thoughts as took his customary seat at the small table. He set up the chessboard and looked around for Jonathan as soon as all pieces were in their proper place. There weren't that many people in the room. A middle-aged man sat in the middle of the floor with his arms wrapped around his bunched up legs as he rocked back and forth, muttering incoherently. The poetry-spouting inmate stood near the window with her forehead resting against the glass and Harley was still staring up at the black-and-white television set. Jonathon was at the other side of the room, reading an old battered copy of Stephen King's _It. _He thumbed through the pages with a look of sheer boredom, making it look about as thrilling as reading a telephone book. Jervis was amazed that the book had not yet been confiscated.

A guard stood in front of Jonathon just as he was thinking this. "Alright, Johnny Boy. What are you doing?"

"It's called _reading, _O Brainless One. Let me enlighten you. This-" Jonathon held up the novel "-is called a book. It's filled with all twenty-six letters of the alphabet- You _do_ know that there _are_ twenty-six, right? These letters are assembled into something that we call _words. _And then the _words_ are arranged to form _sen-ten-ces_."

The guard did not seem to appreciate the sarcasm. "All right, Crane. If you're going to give me backtalk, you can return to your cell."

Jonathon casually rose and tossed the book aside. "_I _ought to take up writing. I certainly can do better than _that _amateur." Jonathan paused by the table as the guard escorted him out, his eyes briefly resting on the chessboard. "Perhaps tomorrow?"

"Very well," Jervis agreed.

Jonathon turned to the guard. "Come along, Cretin." They left the recreation room.

Jervis looked disappointedly down at the chessboard.

"I'll play," a voice offered.

The young woman at the window advanced towards the seat that Jonathon normally occupied. Ever the gentleman, Jervis rose. It was, after all, customary to stand in a lady's presence. He moved quickly, too quickly, and almost knocked the chair over in his haste. "Do sit down."

She sat, but immediately hopped up again with a startled "Oh!" That was followed with, "By Poe's writing desk!" The woman reached into her back pocket, pulling out a toy mouse. "I forgot I had this silly thing. I hope I didn't break it just now." She wound up the crank; the mechanical mouse zoomed about the table, running over the chessboard. "Good, good. At least it still works and- Sorry about that!" The mechanical toy had collided into the row of pawns. "_Sorry_…" She hastily lifted up the toy, turned it upside down and waited for the little wheels to stop winding.

Jervis picked up the toppled pieces, glad for an excuse to avoid looking at her. "No, no, don't apologize. I do like mice- Such amusing little creatures." He began to ramble and could feel his face turn hot as he jabbered. "I-I had four of them once. I always considered them more as pets than test subjects. I used to be a scientist," he added needlessly.

Jervis had long ago developed the habit of evading women. Whenever he did talk to a female, he would instinctively allow his eyelids to drop. It was better that way. Better than seeing disdain and annoyance in their faces. Jervis knew that he was not a handsome man. Nor was he an exciting one. There were some things he never did outgrow. He used be that way with Alice until he summoned up the gall to look up at her sweet, cheerful face. And now that this young woman was absorbed in tinkering with her toy mouse, Jervis allowed himself to freely examine her. She possessed a simple prettiness, not too glamourous and not too alluring, but natural. She lacked the delicate facial features for hers were slightly on the blunt side. Dark coffee-brown hair and tea-colored eyes. Large eyes, which gave the impression of a fawn-like innocence due to their size and color. He recalled seeing her the first time she was escorted down the corridor that housed the Rouge Gallery. How long has it been since that day? Five weeks? Six weeks? She had attended many therapy sessions since then and Jervis had noticed that she was becoming less and less fidgety with each passing day. And a lot more self-assured. And once she had stopped slouching, Jervis could see that she was moderately tall.

"It seems like a former life, doesn't it?" the woman said quietly. Her hands were cupped protectively around the windup mouse as if it was a living, breathing thing that need to be kept warm. "It's hard to believe that I was once a cook at a tearoom. Not as impressive as being a scientist, I admit." The corners of her lips twitched upwards. "What's your name?"

"How dreadfully rude of me. Jervis Tetch, at your service."

There was a flash of recognition. "You're the…" Her voice trailed off.

"The Mad Hatter," he finished for her. "The one who kidnapped people by using a mind control device. And I believe that you're the one who beat your fiancée with a walking stick?" Jervis did not mean for his words to sound so accusing. He added gently, "I'm sure your actions were justified." She did not respond. "Please, forgive me for prying, Miss… Oh, dear… It seems that I know your crimes, but not your name."

"Harriet March." She proceeded to mumble. "_Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn…" _The woman then stopped after the first stanza. "Oh, there I go again. And I told Leland that I would stop doing that." The woman raised her fingers to her temple. "Silently count to ten when I'm agitated, that's what she suggested. Count to ten." She shut her eyes, her fingers twitching as she used them to tally the seconds. Her eyes immediately reopened.

Jervis grinned at both her name and at her rabbitty habits. The twitching and hopping. Plus, the nibbling, he noted as she began to chew her fingernails.

How appropriate. The Mad Hatter, the March Hare and (he glanced down at the toy) the dormouse all sitting at the same table!

Harriet subsequently tilted her head engagingly to the side. "I should thank you for not questioning my motives. You cannot imagine how many times people around here ask me why I did what I did. Even Leland wants to know and keeps hinting around." She carelessly shrugged her shoulders. "Suppose we change the subject. I came over here to play chess. I'm not very good, I'm afraid."

She prodded a pawn forward by two spaces. Jervis immediately moved his knight. Harriet was right when she said that she was unskilled. And she certainly did try, bless her. It did not take long for Jervis to have her king cornered by a bishop and a rook, and, since his pawn made it to the opposite end of the chessboard, he was able to retrieve his queen. Harriet saw that she was trapped and forfeited, laying the white king down in defeat.

Jervis did not bother resetting the pieces. He was surprisingly at ease around her, finding her quaintness slightly comforting. "How often do you have therapy?" He, of course, knew the answer: every Monday, Friday and Saturday at ten o'clock sharp. How many times had he seen her escorted to Dr. Leland's office? It was pathetic really, that he had nothing better to do than watch the people who passed by his cell.

"About three times a week," she answered. "Always the same. Leland with her notepad. Writing, writing and writing some more. There's an armed guard always with us now, because of the _incident_, I suppose."

"Incident?" Jervis echoed.

"Oh…" Her long face became flamingo-pink. "It's something I'm not proud of, but, well, another inmate started the whole thing. Leland explained to me that this inmate- I think her name is Berti- has the habit of picking on newcomers. A typical playground bully. Anyway, Leland said that I had every right to defend myself, only I went a tad overboard. I was positively disgusted with myself at the time, but now… Now I'm kind of glad that it happened. The other inmates treat me with respect now. It's frightening, knowing that I'm capable of such violence."

That explains why she is so self-assured now, Jervis thought and he said out loud, "It gave you a sense of power, didn't it?"

"It did," Harriet answered reluctantly, "and I know that's wrong of me. I'm really _trying_ to get better. Leland says that I'm making progress. I don't remember if it was on my second or third session when I confessed that I pretended to be like Edmond Dantes from _The Count of Monte Cristo_. Pretending just made Arkham seem more bearable. Leland explained that I was using books to escape from reality, that I was confusing fact with fiction. She said that I shouldn't think of Arkham as a prison. Kind of hard, if you ask me, especially with _them _lurking around." The woman gestured towards an a nearby guard. "But she gave me things to read. Not fiction, however. Biology textbooks, histories, and, for some unknown reason, something titled _The Art of Toy Making. _Leland suggested that I find some hobbies for myself. Things to occupy my time when I'm released into the real world, I suppose, and she signed me up for a whole bunch of therapy classes. I made this-" she pointed to the mechanical mouse "-in an Arts and Crafts."

"May I?" He held out his hand.

"Oh, yes, of course." She gave him the toy to examine. It was nothing more than a system of gears, quite unimpressive. But, Jervis reminded himself, not everyone can be a genius. He attempted to give it back to Harriet; she declined.

"No, you keep it." She smiled. Jervis saw that her front teeth were rather large. It didn't bother him; her defects made him less insecure about his own.

"March!" One of the guards shouted. "It's ten minutes to ten. Time for your session with Dr. Leland."

Harriet stood. So did Jervis. Had they not been in an asylum, he would have accompanied her like a proper gentleman. But this was Arkham and he could only watch as an armed guard followed behind her. Jervis sat down again once Harriet had left. A charming girl, he thought, but she was certainly no Alice.

"Ya know, her problem ain't that unusual."

Jervis jolted and turned towards the couch. For some unknown reason, he felt guilty, like he was caught doing something wrong. Jervis saw that Harley was no longer watching television; she was instead grinning like a Cheshire Cat. "Just how long have you been listening, Miss Quinn?"

"Since Tiny Toons ended. Nothin' on but the news. I hate the news. Unless Mistah J's on it, of course."

"Of course," Jervis muttered. "Now what were you saying about Miss Harriet?"

"That her problem ain't unusual. Used'ta hear about cases like it. People who do nothin' but read all the time. And I mean nothin'! They don't even sleep. Soon they get things all messed up. Can't tell what's real and what's not. Like the windmill guy."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The screwball who chased after windmills cause he thought they were giants or somethin'" She stood up and began to turn the television dial, stopping at another cartoon show featuring an obese, stripped cat. "And they think _I'm_ a whacko."

_Author's note: The line "I hate the news" is something I, um, borrowed from Who Framed Roger Rabbit. _

_I would also like to mention that there are a few references to Alice's Adventures in Wonderland throughout this story, but they're very, very subtle. (The obese, stripped cat isn't the Cheshire Cat. Harley's watching Garfield and Friends.) _

_I would also like to thank Eskimo-Otter and KMN91 for their reviews. I really appreciate it! Thank you so much! _


	5. Cabbages and Kings

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Harley Quinn, Mad Hatter, Poison Ivy or Scarecrow. They belong to DC Comics and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own "The Walrus and the Carpenter." **

Arkham, in a feeble attempt to be festive, decorated the lunchroom tables with paper leaves cut out of construction paper along with plastic cornucopias. The head of security, instead of saying grace, lectured them about how grateful they should be and how celebrating Thanksgiving was a privilege, not a right, and therefore they should behave themselves. "Or else none of ya will be celebrating Christmas," he concluded.

Harriet took her tray and, with territorial indignation, glowered at the women who was seated in the place that she normally occupied. She glanced back at Flannery and jerked her head towards the invader. "That's March's seat," Flannery rumbled. The other inmate, a short, weedy woman with a gouged out eye and a jagged scar running across her chin, viewed them both apprehensively before scurrying away like some mangy alley cat. Harriet couldn't help being pleased by her unexpected power. The Arkham women had a hierarchy and both Ivy and Quinn were undoubtedly on top of the social ladder. Harriet herself was only just a few rungs below the two notorious ladies. But Ivy had escaped Arkham and if Harley should follow, that would leave behind Harriet. She carried herself differently because of this knowledge, becoming cool and poised, almost basking in her achieved glory. Harriet would have liked to have credited herself for her boost in status, but she knew the true reason: word had spread and the entire asylum knew that the March woman was friendly with a member of the rouges' gallery.

She at that moment spotted Jervis standing next to an auburn-haired man and flailed her arms to capture his attention. There was a rule that men and women had to be segregated in the lunchroom, but today that rule was lifted. Harriet suspected that it was the staff's way of giving the inmates a rare opportunity to socialize. Some of the women were exited about being allowed to mingle with men; others, particularly the ones who had found companionship with their fellow female inmates, reacted uninterestedly. But before being released from their cells, the guards gave the ladies of Arkham a severe sermon. "You are to conduct yourselves properly. There will be no kissing. No groping. No inappropriate conduct of any sort." It laughably reminded Harriet of her days at Blessed Sacrament when the nuns lectured their male-deprived pupils on how to behave themselves whenever they visited Holy Rosary, their brother school.

"I have lived in this country for several years now," Jervis now said quietly as he seated himself, "but I have never celebrated Thanksgiving before." Harriet was pompously aware that the others were giving him looks of awe, but the Mad Hatter seemed entirely unaware of it. He took a bite of mashed potatoes and grimaced. "They could use some pepper." Black flakes were sprinkled onto the plate. "A cup of tea," the Mad Hatter then mused. "What would I give for a single cup of tea?"

"When you get out of Arkham," Harriet said, "you really should visit Liddell's Tearoom."

"I don't think I'll be getting out anytime soon, m'dear. My crimes are much serious then yours and my mind is far worse off. And besides, I was already temporarily re…" His voiced trailed off and he changed the subject in mid-sentence. "How are your therapy sessions going?" Harriet's fists tightened around her spoon. She unintentionally snapped it in half. "Not good, I take?"

"Leland's been asking me about Lawrence again," Harriet said crossly. "She thinks I attacked him because he was cheating. But that's not it, that's not it at all. You know, come to think of it, I'm actually glad you mentioned it, Jervis, because I wanted to tell you before I told _her._" Jervisdid not respond; Harriet took that as a indication to continue. "Lawrence found out that Mrs. Liddell- She's the one who owned the tearoom where I used to work- included me in her will. He used to say things, odd things, like 'Wouldn't it be a shame if the poor old woman got sick and died?' And shortly afterwards Mrs. Liddell was locked outside in the rain. Another time Lawrence said about how she should be careful when going up and down the steps. Later that week Mrs. Liddell fell down the staircase. I thought that Lawrence was trying to kill her. I confronted him and he told me I was crazy and paranoid and that I was reading too many mysteries. I then broke off the engagement, thinking that would deter him, but it only made him angry. He said something like, 'Why would I bump someone off just to inherit an old tearoom? It's nothing more than a fire hazard.' A fire hazard. That meant he was next going to try to burn the place down. So I begged Mary Ann to leave town and visit her sister. I begged her and begged her and begged her, but she refused. I couldn't tell her… Such a frail heart- It would have killed her. The police were no help. They thought I was crazy. 'A regular fruitcake.' _That's_ what that big lummox said. So I took matters into my own hands."

"And at the trial…" Harriet continued breathlessly. "They went on about what an upstanding citizen Lawrence was. And as I listened to the list of Lawrence's unending good deeds, I began to question my sanity. Maybe it was all in my head. Maybe I am that crazy. And I began to panic. Every time I was asked a question, I startled reciting poetry."

"A charming habit too, I must say." Jervis said. "And besides, m'dear, sanity is overrated. Insanity gives us the ability to do whatever we want, be whoever we want and act however we want."

Harriet recalled her Thanksgiving from last year. She resentfully remembered sitting in a parlor with Lawrence and his stuffy, uppity parents. Prior to the meal, Lawrence had taken her aside. "_None of your musings tonight, please, Harriet. You can talk about politics and current affairs, but please, please remember that my parents don't appreciate daydreamers." _So she promised, because she didn't want to make her fiancée ashamed of her. Harriet had been on her best behavior that night. She took bite after bite of turkey, sipped her wine even though detested the taste of it, folded and refolded her napkin, smiled at whatever was said, all while sitting in silence. It seemed like she was always curbing her behavior. Everyone, it seemed, from her father to Lawrence to Leland, were always trying to restrain her. And now at last, someone was actually encouraging her be kooky and odd. Harriet felt her appreciation for the Mad Hatter swell like an inflated mushroom. He really was a likeable fellow- imaginative, quixotic and charismatic.

Harriet knew that it was wrong of her. She knew that it was a bad habit that needed to be broken, but the unexpected encouragement prompted her. Harriet smiled cheekily and said, "_The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things."_

Right on cue, Jervis finished the quote for her. _"Of shoes- and ships- and sealing wax- of cabbages and kings_."

Harriet raised her plastic cup. "To madness."

The Mad Hatter copied her action. "To madness."

"Cheers."

"Cheers."


	6. To Market, To Market

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Harley Quinn, Mad Hatter, Poison Ivy or Scarecrow. They belong to DC Comics and Warner Brothers. **

**Please read and review. **

Jonathon Crane was bored. He stood idly in the cell, his scrawny arms crossed over his chest. Two cells down some deranged idiot was licking the glass with his slug-like tongue, leaving behind an oozing trail of saliva. There was Harley Quinn in the third cell, sitting cross-legged and chewing bubblegum. Every now and then a balloon would burst and she would twine the pink goo around a single finger. Jonathan could not see into the fourth cell, but that didn't matter since he knew it was vacant; Pamela had escaped a few days prior. He jadedly focused his attention to the opposite cell. Jervis was pacing back and forth. Occasionally the Englishman would pause, run his fingers through his untidy hair and peer eagerly down the hallway. Jonathan did not need a clock to know that it was almost ten. Jervis was once again waiting for that March woman to pass by. Jonathan too had once made an effort to stand by the glass pane whenever she attended her therapy sessions. Trembling limbs, face entirely drained of blood, eyes wide with glorious terror. Terror not caused by him, he thought sulkily. Still, he used to observe her with an unquenchable greed; it was her fear, not her, that he was attracted to and without it the March woman was a bore.

Sure enough March soon appeared. As always, she was escorted by two orderlies. She sauntered down the corridor, bold as brass, head up and shoulders back, disregarding the inmates as though they were nosy neighbors peeking through the windows. She did, however, pause briefly by Jervis's cell, her fingers lightly drumming against the glass. "Good morning, Hatter."

Jonathan's expression of boredom was replaced by one of pure detestation. He watched as Jervis formally inclined his head. "Good day, m'dear." A soppy smile spread across the Mad Hatter's stupid-looking face.

"You're pathetic, you know that?" Jonathan said tersely the moment the March women entered Leland's office. Jervis actually had the nerve to look astonished.

Jonathan proceeded to throw himself down on the thin mattress, staring up at the ceiling and watching the flies that swarmed around his head. Swiftly his hand darted out, snatching hold of one of the insects. He grasped it momentarily in his fist just feel the tiny body ricochet against the palm. He slowly uncurled his fingers. Instead of releasing it, Jonathan transferred the fly over to his other hand so that he could now pinch its wings between his thumb and forefinger. He noiselessly observed the creature's struggle to free itself. Pathetic little body jittering, releasing a droning sound similar the sounds of a motorcycle speeding down a highway. Nowhere near as melodious as screams, but an acceptable substitute. Jonathan smiled maliciously before crushing the fly. He then flicked the tiny carcass away. There were other flies and soon a multitude of dead insects littered the floor.

Jonathan eventually began to sing softly to himself. "_To market, to market, to buy a fat pig. Home again, home again, jiggety-jig." _

"Jervis?"

Jonathan sat up. Was the March woman's therapy session over already?

"Jervis, I might be leaving Arkham. No, I won't be free entirely, just transferred to a halfway house, and- STOP TUGGING AT MY ARM-"

"Come on, March." An orderly's voice. "You can socialize in the recreation room later this afternoon."

"-and all I have to do is win over the board of directors tomorrow," she finished.

"I… I'm happy for you, m'dear…"

You lying little scab, Jonathan thought. He rose from his cot and stood against the glass, his palms touching the barrier with his scythe-like fingers outstretched. "You think it's going to be easy, don't you?" he sneered at her. March unhurriedly turned around. "You honestly think you can convince the entire Arkham staff that you're normal? Imagine a room full of people- _sane _people- asking you questions, just waiting for you to make a blunder. Terrifying, isn't it?"

"They told me about you," she answered, her tone muted. "I know what you're trying to do and I don't like it."

The Scarecrow was unwavering. "You once feared Arkham, didn't you? I know, because I smelled your fear. But there was something you feared worse than Arkham, wasn't there? Being studied. Being questioned. Being judged. Being made to look like a fool."

A security guard now accompanied the two orderlies. He struck the glass with his club. "Quiet!"

Jonathan directed his attention away from March and proceeded to chant blissfully, "_Three wise men of Gotham. They went to sea in a bowl. And if the bowl had been stronger, my song would been longer." _

The club again struck against the glass, harder than before. _"_I said quiet!"

Jonathan smirked in satisfaction; that never failed to unnerve the Arkham staff. He then fixed his gaze back to March just to see if his words had sunk in. He was even more pleased to note that her imperturbable exterior was weakening. He proceeded to goad her. "You think you've overcome your fears by talking to Leland. Poor, misguided child. You haven't overcome a thing; you've merely familiarized yourself with being analyzed by only _one_ psychiatrist. Imagine- Oh, I'd say _eight _or _nine_ more- studying you like an ant underneath a magnify glass. They'll make you burst into flames if you're not careful."

"That's enough, Crane!" the guard bellowed. "One more word and you'll spend a week in solitary!"

"Oh, but my work is done." He grinned nastily at Harriet. "The best of luck tomorrow." The unspoken words "because you're going to need it" lingered in the air.

"Now, really," Jervis said exasperatingly when they had all left the corridor. "Did that make you feel better?"

"Do not take that tone with me, Hatter," Jonathan derided haughtily. "I did you a favor just now and your lack of gratitude displeases me. Has it ever occurred to you that you no longer babble about Alice? That you seek your little March Hare out in the recreation room? And spare me that cow-eyed look of surprise, you infatuated imbecile. I am well aware of your little pet name for her. Tell the truth, Jervis… You don't _really_ want your friend to leave Arkham, do you?"

"I…" There was a glimmer of remorse and the Mad Hatter looked guiltily down at his shoes. "No, I don't…"

"I thought as much." Jonathan waved an indifferent hand. "I merely planted the seeds of fear; tonight they will take root and grow. She will imagine a thousand scenarios about tomorrow's session. Paranoia will overtake her and I theorize that she will do either one of two things- A: break down in hysterics or B: becomes so mistrustful and unstable that she acts out volatility." He recalled her incident with the Joker and added, "Personally, I think the latter, but whichever way, she is bound to fail the hearing."

Jervis blinked in surprise as these words sunk in.

"She _would_ return to Arkham, wouldn't she?" he said faintly at last. "Likely she'll be unhappy. But I can ease her heartbreak, make her forget about her troubles. She'll adore me because of it, yes? It would all be _so _easy… And I can do it all _without _mind control. But…" Jervis ruefully hung his shaking head. "That's utter selfishness on my part. It's- it's not right, is it? Wishing that she return to this grisly place? Entirely unethical…" He helplessly looked up at the Scarecrow.

"Jesus Christ, Tetch," Jonathan sneered. "You're asking _me _of all people about ethics?"

Jervis did not seem to hear his response and continued to mumble, "but, on the other hand, living in a halfway house... Dear me, how absolutely dreadful. They would never understand that poor creature. No, no, I'm the only friend she has. She said so herself. It would be better, wouldn't it, if she returned to Arkham? And she _will_ return too, won't she, my beamish March Hare? O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" And he ceased rambling to fix a look of sheer gratitude upon the Scarecrow.

"No need to thank me," Jonathan said tartly in reply.


	7. Poor Little Lambs

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Joan Leland, Dr. Bartholomew, Mad Hatter or Scarecrow. They belong to DC Comics and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own any of the quoted poems used in this chapter. Those belong to Edgar Allen Poe ("The Raven"), Lord Byron ("Don Juan"), Rudyard Kipling ("Gentlemen Rankers") and Samuel Taylor Coleridge ("Rime of the Ancient Mariner"). **

Water filtered out of the shower head, splattering against the back of her drenched head. Harriet mentally prepared herself by coming up with possible answers to the possible questions that she might be asked. Hot water was limited. With its concrete floors and walls, the shower soon turned brutally cold. Harriet hastily scrubbed herself with soap and shampooed her hair. She was shivering by the time she stepped out. With her teeth chattering and her skin raw, Harriet quickly changed into the thrift-store produced dress that had been provided for her. She towel dried her hair (hairdryers were prohibited) and tied it back with a ribbon. Leland had given her a tube of lipstick for this occasion; Harriet shakily applied the pink color to her mouth with a hand that wasn't trembling because of the temperature.

"Nervous, nervous, why am I so nervous?" she asked the mirror. If she was truly crazy, her mirrored self would have answered. Only it didn't. It merely stood there: pale and frightened and tired-looking. A sleepless night resulted in a pair of bloodshot eyes. "By Poe's writing desk, why am I so nervous?" She giggled even though there wasn't anything funny about the situation. "Why, I wonder, is a raven like a writing desk?"

The hearing was held on the first floor of the asylum. She was escorted there by a pair of orderlies and Dr. Leland, waiting for her outside the door, gave her a belittling pat on the shoulder. Harriet resisted the urge to shrug the hand off.

She was immediately introduced to a room of psychiatrists and board members. Or rather Harriet was seated in front of these people while Leland presented her. Yesterday that Scarecrow fellow had warned her about being like an ant underneath a magnify glass. That wasn't it. That wasn't it at all. It was more like being some rare species of moth and for one horrible moment Harriet truly believed that they were all going to withdraw pins and fasten her to that chair just so they could further examine her. Leland gave them her name, age and history, followed by a lengthy psychological explanation of her crimes. It really was as though Harriet was some unknown species of insect that she- Dr. Leland- had spent months scrutinizing. Leland, oblivious to her patent's uneasiness, continued to give her colleagues a thorough analysis on Harriet. Harriet tried to concentrate less on Leland's speech and focus more on the view outside the window, but every now and then words such as "delusional" and "paranoia" would capture her attention. Focus on the window, Harriet advised herself, and not the doctor. Outside snow was falling; it was as if Mother Nature was attempting to create a Winter Wonderland in celebration of the Christmas season. Harriet caught herself smiling at the word "Wonderland" and thought of how she wanted nothing more than to flee to that world of nonsense. Just then Leland and concluded with the statement of "used fictional books as a means to escape from reality."

Leland proceeded to give a positive speech about Harriet's progress. "Miss March has participated in numerous therapy classes," the doctor ended, "and has been an admirable role model for many of the other inmates."

They nodded approvingly, all except for the man wearing a red and white striped tie. "I heard she did severe damage to another woman her first morning here."

_That _she heard entirely. An indignant Harriet opened her mouth to reply, but Leland beat her to it. "My patient was only trying to defend herself. She did not start the fight."

Harriet bristled in frustration. She was capable of defending herself and therefore did not need Leland's assistance. She also did not appreciate the way they were discussing her like she wasn't even there, or did they think that she was too stupid to understand? Harriet vowed not to let them get by with it; she'll prove to them that she wasn't some brainless moth.

The man with the candy cane tie was not convinced. "And what about Lawrence Frizzle? Tell me, Miss March, do you regret your actions against him?"

"If he is innocent, then I regret it deeply," she answered. "If not... Well, I've got to say that no, I don't regret a thing." Harriet knew at once that she had said the wrong thing. The board members were shaking their heads and muttering amongst each other. Harriet's face turned red because of her folly.

"So you took it upon yourself to punish him for his so-called crimes." The candy cane man smiled smugly. "For your information, Miss March, the Arkham staff do _not _appreciate vigilantes."

"None of you seem to object to Batman," Harriet argued. "Isn't he the reason why half the people here are the way we are?"

"I beg your pardon, but did you say 'we'? I find it troubling that you _still_ equate yourself with the inmates." And then, just to further his point that Harriet could not function in society, the smug little man added, "I also heard that she befriended the Mad Hatter."

"That's not a crime, is it?"

The man looked sternly back at her. "Jervis Tetch is a criminal. And I must say that I am deeply disturbed that you associate with the likes of him."

A multitude of rhythmical phrases surged through her head; Harriet held them back. Bad habit, bad habit, she must repress it. Her fists stiffened so tightly that the nails dug into the flesh. That was all she could do. Slowly her hands unclenched, leaving behind little crescent-shaped sores. "You put me in an asylum, and then you have the nerve to criticize me for associating with the insane?"

A short, kind-faced doctor spoke up. "No one is criticizing you, Miss March." He was using the same appeasing tone of someone attempting to prevent a toddler from throwing a temper tantrum.

"I am _not _a child," Harriet said.

"No one said that you were."

"And I can be friends with _whoever_ I want."

"Yes, you can, Miss March."

The man with the peppermint tie then said, "Are you trying to tell me, Dr. Bartholomew, that the fact that she correlates with a member of Rouge Gallery _doesn't _bother you?" Before Dr. Bartholomew could answer, he asked Harriet, "What exactly do you two talk about?"

"That," she answered through gritted teeth, "is none of your business."

"Please, Miss March, answer Dr. William's question."

"Of course," she answered with a false smile and in a mock thoughtful voice she continued. "Hmmm... Let's see... Mechanical mice, mashed potatoes..." Harriet began ticking them off on her fingers. "Madness, monsters and masks... All things that start with M."

The smug little man did not look amused. "Just want the Dormouse said. Obviously she, like Mr. Tetch, is a fan of Carroll. Isn't that right, Miss March?"

She did not like where this was going. "He's not my topmost favorite, but yes."

He began to address the rest of the board. "Are you aware that Mr. Tetch calls her-" He let out a peculiar choking sound, like he was attempting to conceal a chuckle "-the March Hare?" He smiled triumphantly at Harriet's surprised expression. "I have it all here." The doctor held up a video tape and waved the criminalizing evidence. "Their conversations were captured by the surveillance camera. A number of those conversations revolve around Alice in Wonderland. I also have an audio recording."

There was a cassette player on the table. The man hit the play button and Jervis's voice was the first one heard. "_I hope you don't mind my calling you the March Hare, m'dear. Just a simple term of endearment_."

"_No, no_," came her recorded reply. "_I don't mind._" A brief pause. "_Why do you like Alice in Wonderland so much?" _

"_It's hard to say exactly. As a child I enjoyed the mere unreality. As an adult… I felt a certain kinship with the characters. The Duchess for being so ugly; Alice for always saying the wrong thing; the Mad Hatter, the way he is so intimidated by his superiors, particularly the Queen and King of Hearts."_

"_I don't see anything wrong with that. I used to compare myself with Alice. I was so much shorter than the other girls until my growth spurt. Then I towered over most of them."_

The man hit the stop button. "Apparently, Harriet March, or dare I say the March Hare, encourages Tetch's fantasies. An admirable role model, Dr. Leland? You must be joking."

For a moment Harriet could only stare at the tape.

"You're certainly nervier than hell," she said. Her voice was nothing more than a whisper. It increasingly became louder. "You actually listened to almost every private conversation I had… You invaded my privacy. Yes, yes, Jervis and I talked about the book. What do you think I'm going to do next? Encourage the Mad Hatter to control the minds of every man, woman and child in Gotham?"

"It isn't appropriate to joke about such things, Miss March!"

"And it isn't appropriate for you to pry into my life, Dr. Williams."

Dr. Bartholomew cleared his throat. "That's enough, Robert. What you did was completely unnecessary. Their discussions are not dangerous- Indeed, they might in fact be entirely beneficial. She, after all, discovered the root for his obsession. Clearly you are trying to incriminate her-"

"And you, Bartholomew, are trying to coddle her!"

The barrier was deteriorating; Harriet made no attempt to refurbish it. She chirped happily, "You mustn't talk that way to your colleagues, Bob." And then, in a singsong voice, she added, "_You, Bob, are rather insolent, you know." _The haughty little man was struggling to control his temper, but her poetic taunt sparked his irritation.

Robert Williams pointed an accusing finger. "You see! You see what you let these miscreants get by with!" It was impossible to tell who made him angrier: Harriet or Dr. Bartholomew.

"_We're poor little lambs who've lost our way. Baa! Baa! Baa! We're little black sheep who've gone astray! Baa-aa-aa!"_

"AND YOU DO _NOTHING_!" Dr. Williams roared. "It's your fault that these animals don't mend their ways. You baby them and then you release them. And then before you know it they are once again wrecking havoc-"

"I said that's enough!" Dr. Bartholomew demanded. The other board members looked from him to Dr. Williams and back again to Dr. Bartholomew. It was like they were watching a ping pong match.

Dr. Williams rose heatedly from his chair.

Harriet emulated his action.

"Robert, have a seat," Dr. Bartholomew instructed. "You too, Miss March."

Harriet ignored the command.

"_Nightmare Life-In-Death was she," _Harriet chanted, her honeyed tone greatly conflicting with the gruesomeness of her words. _"Who thicks man's blood with cold." _And she nimbly bounded over the table as she lunged for the doctor. They both toppled over. With a single knee digging into his chest, Harriet hissed, "I do not like it when people insult me." She gave him a stinging slap across the face. "I do not it when people criticize my choice of friends"- slap "-or call them miscreants-" slap "-or say that they are criminals-" slap "-or scrutinize-" slap "-every word I say." Harriet sprung up to her feet with the quickness of a jack-in-a-box. She really had no intention of attacking anyone else, but _they _didn't know that. Three or four orderlies wrestled to the floor so that they could place a straitjacket on her.

"Clearly, Miss March is in no condition to leave Arkham," Dr. Bartholomew said wearily as Harriet was escorted away. He glared callously at a disheveled Dr. Williams. "I hope you are satisfied, _Bob_."


	8. Gently Smiling Jaws

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of the Mad Hatter, Scarecrow, Ventriloquist, Harley Quinn or the Joker. They belong to DC Comics and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own any of the quoted poems used in this chapter. Those belong to Isaac Watts ("Against Idleness and Mischief") and Lewis Carroll ("How Doth the Little Crocodile").**

**Please, please, give this story a review. This is my first Batman piece and I've got to admit that I'm a little desperate for feedback. **

The white bishop moved diagonally across the chessboard and captured a pawn, unintentionally leaving the most powerful piece unprotected. Immediately the black rook took advantage of this opportunity by snatching the opposing queen. "You should have spotted that, Jervis," Jonathan chided mildly. He leaned back against the chair and folded his long fingers together. "I can't help being disappointed by your lack of concentration."

"Hmm?" Jervis turned his head away from the door. He studied the chessboard, noticing that the black pieces greatly outnumbered the white. "Well, what do you know? As sure as ferrets are ferrets, I am indeed careless today." His fingers drummed against the table as he pretended to contemplate his next move, knowing that he was sure to loose and frankly not caring. His eyes flicked briefly to the overhead clock and, seeing that hardly a moment had passed since the last time he had checked the time, quickly slid his king backwards by one space.

The black queen descended down at once, joining the advancing knight and rook as well as a strategically placed pawn as they ambushed the white king.

"Checkmate." Jonathon stifled a yawn, stretching his long arms behind his head. "I'd normally say 'good game,' but considering how shoddily you played, today's match was no more challenging than a round of Hi Ho! Cherry-O." He gathered together the chess pieces. "So, Tetch, just why are you dressed up like a regular dandy? If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you trying to impress somebody." He frowned at Jervis's trademark top hat. "I'm actually shocked that they allowed you to have that thing."

"I simply told them that whether or not I retained my Mad Hatter persona was _my _decision to make, not there's. And, after all, if the Ventriloquist is allowed to keep his puppet, then I'm certainly entitled to keep my hat." Jervis failed to mention the sermon he had received afterwards, about how he was still Jervis Tetch, with or without the costume. True, it wasn't complete, not without the old-fashioned coat and gloves that gave the imitation of a Victorian gentleman. But at least he had _something _that made the dream seem real. True, the hat was nothing more than a prop, but without it he was timid Tetch, bullied and hassled and utterly boring. The Mad Hatter, however… _He _was everything that Jervis had ever wanted to be… A real man of the town, charismatic, dashing, daunting…

Jonathan's laconic voice interrupted his musings. "Ah, well, I dare say, here comes the reason behind the Mad Hatter's absentmindedness." The March Hare was being escorted into the recreation room, garbed in her asylum uniform. Scarecrow got up from the table. "And that is my signal to leave." Jonathan imperiously snapped his fingers at a nearby guard. "You! Simpleton! I wish to return to my cell!"

Jervis without delay searched his pockets and yes, there it was: a handkerchief to offer the March Hare. It was old and faded and the fabric was slightly coarse, but it was clean at least. Now was his chance. He would soothe her, give her words of comfort, wipe away her tears. And she would be devoted to him because of it, yes? The Mad Hatter rose in a gentlemanly fashion, approaching the March Hare, _his _March Hare, only to see that there were _no_ tears trickling from her eyes. Curiouser and Curiouser… Surely, undoubtedly, she had failed yesterday's hearing… Shouldn't she be crying because of it? His Alice- no, the _lizard's _Alice- had a tendency to weep… A bad day, a bad breakup, a heartless and soulless Dr. Cates hollering at her… It didn't take much to make that girl shed a pool of tears. Jervis had spent the last two days preparing for this moment, rehearsing what exactly what he was going to say to the sobbing March Hare. But the March Hare wasn't even crying and Jervis felt cheated. Still, he recovered himself enough to become a debonair gentleman. He theatrically swept off his hat and bowed. "You're looking well, m'dear." Jervis glanced up at her brightly. "M'dear?"

She wasn't listening. There was a crease between her eyebrows, which deepened as she ogled the table that they normally occupied. Noiselessly, she turned the piece of furniture over. Kneeling down, she began to inspect the bottom of the tabletop by running her fingers across it. She couldn't find whatever it was she was searching for and seemed to relax because of it. The March Hare peeled back the remnants of thick adhesive tape. "So this is where…"

"Where what?"

The March Hare lifted her eyes. "Oh, nothing, just being my paranoid self." She got up, adjusted the table and rolled the scraps of tape into a tiny wad before flicking it away. Jervis had the inkling that there was something that she was hiding from him, but before he could demand to know what, she announced. "I failed my hearing. And my rehabilitation sentence has been increased." She shrugged her shoulders. "It's okay, really because I… _really _don't want to return to my lonely old life. I thought I did, but no, not anymore… Baking cakes and pies _all_ day, being bossed around by an old woman…"

"Sitting in a lab with only mice for company, being screamed at by the Queen of Hearts," Jervis sighed. "Oh, believe me, I understand. You see, m'dear, I don't want to return to _my _old life either."

As if drawn by magnet, both their eyes focused on the top hat still clutched in the Hatter's hands. The March Hare took it, flipped it over and studied it with adorable curiosity. Her hand dipped into the hat as if attempting to pull out a white rabbit or a bouquet of flowers, and Jervis saw something slip from the sleeve of her shirt and land in inside. Swiftly, before any of the guards could see what she just did, the March Hare placed the hat on Jervis's head where it rightfully belonged. Something thudded against his skull. "Another mechanical toy," she muttered faintly in explanation and in a louder tone of voice added, "It suits you, the hat, I mean." The March Hare then adjusted the collar of his uniform. But her fingers never left the lapels. Perhaps he was imagining it. Perhaps he was only deluding himself. Yet Jervis was almost certain that there was an affectionate glint in her tea-colored eyes. He did a doubletake. Yes, yes, it _truly _was there, along with a slightly playful curve of her mouth. The Hatter raised his hand, slowly, as not to startle his jittery friend, and tilted her chin upwards, running his thumb across her lips.

"A poem," he requested.

March Hare tilted her head to the side like a little sparrow. "_How skillfully she builds her cell. How neat she spreads the wax. And labors hard to store it well with the sweet food she makes."_

Mad Hatter shook his head. "I prefer Carroll's parody." He began to his recite_, "How cheerfully he seems to grin. How neatly spreads his claws, and welcomes little fishes in with gently smiling jaws_."

He appraised her approvingly then. Tall and lithe, lively and nimble, plus a talent for toy making, which could prove to be valuable. With a little patience and a little mending, she would... Jervis withdrew his hand, appalled by what he was seriously considering. True, he did not want to return to his mundane, solitary life, but he didn't want to turn to a life of crime, did he? He suddenly had a mental image of Harley Quinn standing side-by-side with the Joker. If that…that monstrous clown could have a partner in crime, than so could he. Not a sidekick, not a henchwoman, but an actual cohort. He would never permit his March Hare to become some disposable crony. The Mad Hatter and the March Hare… Similarly insane, similarly lonely, just two souls that found some degree of happiness inside that dark Wonderland known as Arkham. But, on second thought, she would be putting herself in danger... Jervis shuddered at the idea of her getting thrashed by that wretched bat, having her photo published in the paper underneath a headline that practically shouted out "_Gotham's Newest Costumed Freak_!" No, he would not, could not, allow her her to become another addition to the infamous rouge gallery.


	9. Far and Few

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Joan Leland, Dr. Bartholomew,Harley Quinn, Mad Hatter, Joker or Scarecrow. They belong to DC Comics and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own the quoted poems used in this chapter. Those belong to Lewis Carroll ("The Walrus and the Carpenter") and Edward Lear ("The Jumblies"). **

Dr. Leland stood alone in Harriet March's cell, scrutinizing the occupant's belongings. A pile of books were stacked neatly in pile. Joan could see _The Art of Toy-Making _resting on the top. She shifted her gaze onto the shelf crammed with dozens of mechanical toys. The pieces ranged in craftsmanship: some, clearly her earlier works, were makeshift while the more recent ones had been molded with meticulous detail. Some were left unpainted, yet highly varnished; others were vibrantly decorated. It was a regular menagerie. There were automatons representing hedgehogs, unicorns, lions, plus some odd-looking bird that Joan guessed was a puffin. It was this unpainted piece that she chose to wind up. The toy's wings flapped four or five times. That was all. Joan rotated the bird in every direction. Harriet actually had a talent for this craft; she probably never would have discovered it had she not been sent to Arkham.

A voice disrupted her thoughts. "Do I mess with your things while I'm in your office?" Joan turned. Harriet, having returned from the recreation room, was in the cell, flanked by two guards. "No, I at least have the decency to leave your belongings alone." She crossly extended her hand. "Hand it over."

"It's very good," Joan replied coolly and she gave the toy back to its creator. "I could not help noticing how realistically you depicted the puffin. You should be very proud."

"Thank you," Harriet replied with severity. She placed the automaton back on the shelf. "But obviously I did not carve it well enough for you to realize that it's a dodo, not a puffin."

"A _dodo_," Leland repeated.

"That's right. A character from _Alice in Wonderland. _Unfortunately," she added with sarcastic regret, "I am under the influence of the Mad Hatter-"

"That was uncalled for," Joan argued defensively. "I wasn't trying to imply that you were-"

Harriet cut her off. "Why are you here?" she demanded.

Joan gave a sigh and gestured towards the cot. "Have a seat."

Harriet drew herself up to her full height. "I'll stand."

"Very well." Joan responded crisply while continuing to keep her features unwavering and her tone unruffled. Her professional façade masked her uneasiness. Had they been in her office, surrounded by familiar memorabilia of diplomas and replicas of well known paintings that (she hoped) would be soothing to her patients, Joan would have had a much better time conversing with her patient. But here… Here, she did not have the security of being in her own personal environment. She had left that familiar atmosphere and transferred over to an unsafe realm were madness reigned. Joan was in the patent's cell, the patient's territory, and couldn't help feeling uneasy because of it. The fact that Harriet recently seemed to regard her as an opponent did not ease the situation. It wasn't that she behaved aggressively towards her; it was just that Harriet possessed that air of icy formality. Joan reminded herself that even the chief of medicine periodically felt nervous with some of his patients. Still, Joan could not help feeling as though she no longer had the upper hand and dismayingly realized that Harriet was also aware of this shift of power. The corner of her mouth had twitched slightly upwards.

Joan forced herself to meet Harriet's unblinking eyes.

"You're being moved," she declared without emotion. "I'm afraid that you made an enemy with Dr. Williams yesterday. He's got pull in Gotham. Very enormous pull. He's friends with Mayor Hamilton Hill as well as Commissioner Gordon. And it's quite possible that he just might be our next chief of medicine. I regret to say, Miss March, that Dr. Williams lobbied that you be moved to a more highly surveyed ward."

Joan did not need to explain further. Harriet responded unperturbedly, "Rouge Gallery ward."

"We prefer to call it C Block," Joan amended mincingly. "Not everyone in that ward is a Rouge."

"As if that's supposed to make me feel any better," Harriet replied. "Not exactly a progressive step, is it?" Despite her pessimism, she seemed unsurprised by the news and began to gather together her belongings. Harriet held her books against her chest like a shield. "I'll be needing a cardboard box," she said, looking up at her collection of windup toys.

"I'll have them packed and brought up to you later today," Joan guaranteed.

Harriet didn't seem entirely mollified by this; she appraised her toy menagerie and selected a softball-sized snail, presumably her favorite. Harriet then cast a backwards glance over her shoulder, giving her cell a final fleeting look before allowing the guards to escort her to C Block. They approached the upper level of the asylum like a grim, unsmiling parade. Joan couldn't help feeling a resentful appreciation for the way her patient composedly meandered down the very same corridor that once terrified her. Harriet entered her new cell and set the books down next to her cot, resting the toy snail carefully on top. It was odd seeing her in there since this was once Harley Quinzel's cell. Unfortunately Miss Quinzel managed to escape two days ago.

"'Bout time we got some more dames 'round here," came a guffawing voice from the neighboring cell, "especially since Blondie left." There was a wolf whistle. "How ya doin' Doll Face?" There was a short chortle followed by, "Ya ain't bad lookin' neither, Doc. If ya just shortened that skirt of ya's-"

"Oh, dear, you really shouldn't-"

"SHUT UP, DUMMY!"

Joan ignored the antics of Arnold Wesker. "I'm sorry that this had to happen, Harriet. If there's anything I can do-"

"Just go."

Joan opened her mouth to give another feeble apology, but thought better of it. Harriet now appeared to be oblivious to her and the guards; she was unwrapping a stick of chewing gum that Miss Quinzel had left behind. Joan nodded towards the guards and stepped out of the cell; she could hear the clanking of keys as they bolted the heavily locked door. She proceeded to her office.

Two men were waiting inside.

"Dr. Bartholomew," she greeted pleasantly. Her brows furrowed. "Dr. Williams."

Dr. Bartholomew removed his glasses and wiped the lenses clean. "Robert here says that he has something to share with us."

"Speak up. I lost my hearing aid. I think it popped out when that patient of yours attacked me, Joan." He turned towards the chief of medicine. "By any chance have the custodians come across it?"

"Sorry, Robert."

"Very well." Again he focused his attention to Joan. "As you know, I took it upon myself to watch the videos captured by the recreation room's security camera."

"Yes," Joan replied bitingly, "I'm aware of that."

She neglected to say that she had attempted to watch one of those tapes last night, hoping that she could perhaps find whatever it was that had triggered Dr. William's suspicion. Joan was also curious to know if there was something shady going on between Ms. March and Mr. Tetch. The last thing she wanted was a repeat of the whole Harley-Quinzel-and-Joker fiasco. It was like spying on a dating couple. Harriet March's face became animated as she engaged in a lively conversation. Her hands, instead of being clenched, fluttered enthusiastically whenever she spoke. Mr. Tetch had developed the habit of running his fingers through his hair; often the Englishman would cast a nutcracker-like smile in Harriet's direction. Not exactly the most captivating grin in the world, but it was warm and genuine. Truthfully, Joan found nothing alarming about it; all she saw were two people who generally seemed to enjoy each other's company. Disgusted with Williams for being so skeptical and being equally disgusted with herself, Joan had turned off the VCR after a short while. She thought she knew Harriet well enough to understand that her conduct was sincere and she sincerely doubted that Tetch was that good at manipulating. Some of the high profile residents were pros at it, but the Mad Hatter... Definitely not. Why else would he be compelled to create a mind control device?

"I also had a recorder hidden underneath the table they normally occupy," Dr. Williams continued. "_This _particular tape was brought to me earlier today. I believe it takes place two, maybe three days, before the hearing." He placed a cassette player on Joan's desk. "I felt that it was my duty to share this with you both." The play button was pushed.

A faint sound like cards being shuffled was heard. Then came Harriet March's voice. "…_Just a system of gears. Not too impressive…" _Joan assumed she was talking about one of her windup toys.

"_A seashell?" _

"_Turn the crank."_

"_Turn the… Oh! Look at that, it opens… Ah, I see!" _Joan could hear his delighted applause. "_Bravo!" _A short pause. "_The eldest Oyster winked his eye and shook his heavy head, meaning to say he did not choose to leave the oyster-bed."_

Dr. Bartholomew made an interruption. _"_Just _what _exactly are you trying to prove her, Robert?" he inquired.

Dr. Williams raised the volume. "Listen!"

"_All right, Hattie_," came a guard's voice. "_You know the rule. No electronic devices for you."_

"_This is a mere toy," _Mr. Tetch disputed. "_It does not involve electricity of any sort."_

"_Excuse me? Is Ickle Maddie Hattie giving me backtalk?" _There was a sudden _swoosh _followed by a heavy thud of something being slammed against the wall. "_Now listen, you God damn freak. You gotta learn to treat your superiors with respect." _Another thud. Harriet's angry shouts of protest were heard in the background. "_Got it?"_

Joan never heard Mr. Tetch's response for Dr. Bartholomew said heatedly, "I want that surveillance tape. I want to know who that guard is-"

"Listen!" Dr. Williams again barked. He hit the fast forward button and then pressed play.

"_Never mind that loutish tyrant, m'dear. Brute force is a last resort for the simpleminded." _Tetch cautiously lowered his voice._ "I'm not allowed to have gadgets of any kind. They're afraid I'll create another mind control device, you see."_

"_Can you do that?" _Harriet asked. She too was whispering. (Dr. Williams raised the volume even louder.)

"_It's relatively simple to do. I don't need a laboratory or high tech equipment. Simple, everyday items will do the trick. I could make one in my cell, if I wanted. I might even have some of the nessisary parts..." _

Dr. Williams hit stop at this point. "Hear that?"

"Yes," Dr. Bartholomew answered solemnly. "I will have the guards search Mr. Tetch's cell later this afternoon. But first," he added, rising from his chair, "I have to meet the new guards. We've had to increase our security. First the Joker, then Miss Isley, followed by Miss Quinzel… It's never boring around here." He shook hands with Dr. Williams. "Thank you, Robert, for bringing this to our attention. Hopefully, Mr. Tetch was just showing off."

They left Joan's office, closing the door behind them.

The two doctors made their way through the ward; the inhabitants watched them from behind the glass. It was like passing through the reptile house at the zoo. They paused momentarily in front of the cage that accommodated the newest addition: a potentially dangerous specimen known as Harriet March. She sat cross-legged on the floor, absorbed in a book and appearing entirely harmless. Appeased by this, they continued on, not noticing that Harriet had raised her head to watch them, a wily smile spreading across her face. She reached over and picked up the toy snail, rotating its shell once to the right and then twice to the left, revealing the secret compartment hidden inside. She pulled out Dr. William's hearing aid, held it out as though she was appraising a diamond ring, and then swiftly concealed it inside the snail's shell.

Giddy with her secret and eager to share it with the one who was capable of setting them free, the March Hare began to sing softly to herself. "_Far and few, far and few, are the lands where the Jumblies live." _

_Author's note: I want to thank Krazysmiles, JazzQueen and KMN91 for their reviews. Thanks! You guys are awesome! _


	10. I'll Be Judge, I'll Be Jury

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Dr. Bartholomew, Mad Hatter, Scarecrow or the Ventriloquist. They belong to DC Comics and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own any of the quoted poems used in this chapter. Those belong to Lord Byron and Lewis Carroll ("Hunting of the Snark, " "Fury and the Mouse" and "Jabberwocky") **

Jervis laid on his cot, his arms behind his head, staring up above him like a stargazer. But instead of stars, there was only a discolored ceiling. A discolored ceiling with eight… No, _nine _brownish stains caused by leaks. Yes, he had counted the stains; that's how wretchedly bored he was. Dinner wasn't for another- what? Two hours? (Being unaware of the exact time was a downside of not being trusted with things such as wristwatches.) There was, of course, the thousand piece puzzle that the doctors had given him. He had already completed it; he had completed it _four_ or _five _times, in fact. Jervis was slightly offended by the silliness of being given such a thing and found the jigsaw puzzle to be entirely pointless and unchallenging. Frankly, he was in no mood to again assemble the pieces and left the battered box underneath the cot. Nothing left to do except let his mind wander aimlessly, but before Jervis could sink into a world of wonderment, an obviously bored Jonathan averted his attention.

"_Who killed Cock Robin?_" The Mad Hatter turned his head. The Scarecrow, like himself, was staring up at the ceiling while chanting softly to himself. _"I, said the Sparrow, with my bow and arrow."_

And then came the March Hare from several cells down. She spoke out fairly loudly so that she could be also be heard. "_Who killed John Keats? I, says the Quarterly, so savage and tartarly."_

Jervis felt the need to participate. With a Cheshire-ish grin, he chimed, "_You may charge me with murder, or want of sense-"_

His was interrupted by a voice that shouted out crossly, "Shut up, all of ya's. Sheesh, ya bunch of jerks."

The Scarecrow reacted badly to this bit of rudeness. "Do not tell _me _to shut up," he warned threateningly. He did not raise his voice, but he spoke in a tone that was cold enough to freeze the harbor. "_Never _tell _me_ to shut up, you mindless marionette-"

"Yeah, and what are ya gonna do about it, Twigs? You like rhyming so much? How about this? _Crane, Crane, 'bout to be slain!_" Or "_Killed by a puppet cause he couldn't shut it!" _

"Please, Mr. Scarface… Don't you know what that man is capable of?"

"SHUT UP!" Arnold Wesker let out a terrified whimper. "How many times do I have to tell ya? _I'm_ the brains 'round here and you are just the hired help. Do I make myself clear, Dummy?"

"Y-yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, s-sir, Mr. Scarface."

"Now that's more like it. I don't want ya treating me with no disrespect."

"I wonder what it is that your little _doll_ fears most, Wesker?" Scarecrow taunted. Another faint snivel of terror was heard; Jonathon grinned nastily at the sound. "Or should I say, what _you _fear most? Losing your little toy perhaps? There are many things that can destroy wood, you know. Termites… A heated furnace… A lighted match… A flock of woodpeckers…"

"Y-you wouldn't!" the old man sputtered.

"What would happen to _you _if your boss was reduced to a pile of ash?" Scarecrow goaded. "What would happen to you then?" He didn't want for an answer. "You'd be all alone. Just a sick, lonely, frightened old man."

Jervis could see Scarecrow smile exultantly upon hearing the timorous Wesker's sob. He subsequently gazed down the hallway and into the Ventriloquist's cell, expecting to find a panic-stricken Arnold. Sure enough, the old man was crouched on the floor with one arm flung over his eyes. His other arm was operating the puppet- a puppet who was also wearing an asylum uniform. Jervis had a strange urge to laugh; he probably would have had the this scene not been so… pitiful.

"Please," Wesker sniveled. He began to rock back and forth. "Please, Mr. Scarecrow, Mr. Scarface didn't mean to offend you, honest!"

That was followed by "SHUT UP!" There was a thud; Arnold let out a cry of pain. "Enough with the waterworks. Can't you see he's bluffin'?"

They all seemed to hear the sound of footsteps at that very moment. Jonathan fixed his gaze onto the ceiling, a ghost of a smile still lingering on his face. A gulping Arnold tried to repress his wails.

"Yo, chief!" Scarface barked. "Ya gotta do something about that bundle of straw over there. He keeps threatenin' me!"

Jervis heard Dr. Bartholomew let out a sigh like a teacher about to break up a fight between two squabbling children. "Please, Mr. Crane. Do not provoke Mr. Wesker-"

"Mr. Wesker, my wooden ass! It's _me _he's been insultin', not Jerk-Face here!"

"How did you get those bruises, Mr. Wesker?" Dr. Bartholomew suddenly demanded.

"What? Oh… I, uh, I-I tripped," Arnold stammered with another noisy sniffle. He wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand. "I tripped and I fell-"

"You tripped?" the doctor repeated suspiciously. "I find that rather hard to believe. My guess is that those bruises were self-inflicted." His composed voice became severe. "If you can't control your _friend, _I'm afraid I have no choice but to remove him from your cell. You're the one in control, Mr. Wesker. Not him."

"Oh, yeah?" Scarface challenged. "If Dummy here says he tripped, he tripped! Jeez Louise. I didn't do nothin'! I gotta listen to Haystack quotin' Mother Goose and then that broad opposite of me keeps blabberin' all that poetry rubbish-" Something like a book being thrown against the glass was heard. The puppet cackled. "Don't like that, do ya, Doll-Face? As I was sayin', Chief, those two goons are yackin' and then Hats down there joins in. I try to say somethin' 'bout it and Stick Boy threatens me… And whatta I get when I brings this to your attention? Ya point that finger at me and accuse me of things I ain't done! Ya know what? I hope ya _do_ remove me! Ya think I like bein' here to baby-sit this jerk? The truth is, Doc, we both know that ain't gonna happen. I know all 'bout Dummy here refusin' to eat without me and- Where ya goin,' ya quack! I ain't done talkin' yet!"

Jervis was too busy listening to the Ventriloquist's rant to realize that his cell door was being opened. The doctor along with four guards entered. "There really is no room for _all_ of you," the Mad Hatter reprimanded loftily. "Is there a problem?"

"I regret to say that there is," Dr. Bartholomew answered. "It has come to our attention that you have talked about building another mind control mechanism. That's just as serious as concealing a weapon and I am unwilling to take any chances. Therefore I have no choice but have your cell searched as well as-" the doctor uncomfortably tugged at his tie "-have you undergo a cavity search. If you don't mind stepping this way…"

Jervis bit down on his lip in angry degradation and passively exited. In the opposite cell Jervis could see the Scarecrow looking pointedly away; further down the March Hare had her arms tightly wrapped around herself. She too was sparing him from further embarrassment by avoiding eye contact. He mentally began to recite Fury and the Mouse ("_I'll be judge, I'll be jury, said the cunning old Fury.") _as he was lead to a small room where some doctor Jervis had never seen before stood waiting. It began with his ears being examined and when the doctor switched on a flashlight and instructed, "Head back," he complied, reluctantly permitting the nostrils to be searched followed by the inside of the mouth. Truthfully, this part wasn't so terrible; it was no more intrusive than a routine checkup. However, when ordered to strip down, a blotchy flush spread across Jervis's face. He slowly removed his clothes and adamantly insisted on folding them. It was an absurd thing to do, but this finicky habit was a difficult one to break, plus it conveniently served as a stall tactic. Jervis proceeded to squeeze his eyes shut and muttered faintly to himself as the examination became more invading. "_Beware the Jubjub bird…" _He gritted his teeth as his entire figure shuddered. "…_And shun the furious Bandersnatch."_

Jervis was accompanied back to C-Block once the inspection was over. There two people were having a heated argument- Scarface and March Hare by the sounds of it- and their voices were echoing throughout the corridor. Triggered by the shouts, the deranged idiot whose cell was next to Jervis's increased the noise even further by pounding his fists against the glass. Jervis was quickly ushered into his cell as the guards attempted to quiet them down. He would have thrown himself on his cot, only his old cot was missing, replaced by one stained with what looked like human excrement. Disgusted with such filth, Jervis moved away from the urine-soaked mattress. He drifted towards the glass and peered down the aisle only to see a stoical Arnold holding Scarface.

The Ventriloquist had manipulated the puppet's hand so that it was rolled into a shaking fist. "I'm warnin' ya, Doll-Face. Ya better keep that trap of yours shut-"

March Hare laughed delightedly. "What are you going to do? Give me a splinter?" She added fuel to the fire by applauding. "This is more amusing than a Punch and Judy show! Come on, come on! How about a song? Oh, I've got an idea! How about 'Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo'?"

The guards' batons struck the glass in front of their cells. "CUT THE CRAP, THE BOTH YOU!"

"They've been at it since you left," Jonathan said to Jervis. "I am not exactly sure how it started, but my guess is that the Ventriloquist was retaliating because of the things I had said earlier." The grin on his thin face indicated that the Scarecrow was anything but sorry. "I must say that it was an excellent source of entertainment while it lasted."

Jervis shrugged in response before strolling over to the corner of his cell. He gave a backwards glance, saw that the hall was clear of guards, and fingered the brick with the zigzag chiseled into it. Quickly he loosed the block to reveal the hidden compartment. Yes, it was all there, little odds and ends had had collected: pieces hastily filched when a guard accidentally dropped and shattered a walkie-talkie, a few strips of tinfoil, a couple of rubber bands. Jervis put the brick back in place and once again thanked the previous occupant of this cell. He could not help scoffing at the laughable Arkham security as he wondered away from his secret stockpile. Still giving his cot a wide berth, Jervis eyed the cell only discover that two of the March Hare's mechanical toys had been taken. He no longer had the mouse or the oyster, but there was still the one that she had given to him earlier that day. Jervis removed his hat, turned it upside-down and peeled back the silk lining. A tiny spool-sized tortoise was hidden there. He looked at it inquiringly for a moment before gingerly giving it's head a pert tap. The shell sprung open to reveal an opening that was large enough to hold a pill. Inside, there was a single button cell battery that probably came from some portable electronic. A wristwatch perhaps, or maybe a calculator. It would be highly useful.

Jervis grinned and concealed the tiny mechanism back inside his top hat. "We called him tortoise because he taught us," he said out loud to nobody in particularly.

_Author's note: I'm kind of wondering whether or not I should give this story an "M" rating. I would like to mention that I did not include the cavity search merely for shock value. Believe me, I was squirming while writing this and tried to make it as tactful as possible. I'm only trying to make this story somewhat realistic. Truthfully, I don't know anything about prisons. However, I do remember the stories my old Criminal Justice teacher used to tell and yes, a few of them were about cavity searches. _

_The "Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo" bit is from the movie Lili. It's not exactly a well-known film, but it is a favorite of mine. It involves puppets and so I couldn't resist throwing in that reference. _

_Also, I apologize for Scarface's painfully bad poetry. That was seriously the best I could come up with. _

_As always, reviews will be greatly appreciated. _


	11. Holiday Games

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of the Mad Hatter, Scarecrow or the Ventriloquist. They belong to DC Comics and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own the quoted poem used in this chapter. That one belongs to T.S. Elliot ("The Naming of Cats") **

The caterpillar inched its way across the floor; the walrus flapped its flippers; the rabbit performed back flips. The bobbing and the whirling and the leaping gave her dreary cell a sense of… Wonderment, you could say, like being at a toyshop. But the magic was fleeting because the man with the puppet had to annoy her.

"Too old for playin' with toys, aren't ya, Doll-face?"

Instead of pointing out the hypocrisy of his remark, Harriet chirped in a singsong voice, "_It isn't just one of your holiday games. You may think at first I'm mad as a hatter…_"

"For cryin' out loud! There she goes again with _that_ garbage. Help me out, will ya, Dummy?" The old man manipulated the puppet's hands, placing them over its wooden ears.

It was now ten o'clock. Time for therapy. As always, two guards came to escort her. They didn't say a word to her as she was lead down the corridor; they never did. They normally yakked amongst themselves and today was no exception.

"New watch?"

"Yeah, my mother-in-law sent it. Early Christmas gift. The clasp keeps coming undone. Cheap piece of crap."

A pair of guards accompanying the Mad Hatter were heading in their direction. She knew the other inmates' schedules as well as she knew her own and right now Jervis was returning from the recreation room. Harriet heard fragments of the guards' conversation; instead of complaining about cheap watches, these two were griping about having to work on Christmas Eve. She met the Mad Hatter's gaze while and deliberately dropped a silvery bubblegum wrapper.

"M'dear," he chided, "I cannot help but be bothered by your untidiness. This lurid Wonderland is already foul enough; there is no need for you to make it worse by dropping rubbish, especially when there's a trash bin less than two feet away." He bent down to retrieve the crumbled up piece of foil.

"All right, Hattie," said the guard accompanying Jervis. "Give it to me."

"What, this? A harmless bubblegum wrapper?"

"Don't give me any shit. Hand it over. _Now._"

"If you insist." Jervis unarguably placed the bit of trash into the guard's extended hand, who promptly tore it open only to find nothing but chewed up pink gum still wet from Harriet's saliva.

"No tricks, no deceptions, no hidden weapons of any sort," the Mad Hatter said gleefully. "Such a pity that you people don't trust us and- M'dear, you just dropped two more-"

"I didn't!"

"You did."

"I deny it!"

The guard pointed to the bubblegum wrapper on the floor. "Then what the hell do you call that?"

Jervis picked up the two wrappers and immediately brandished them in front of the guard's face, narrowing missing the man's nose. "Care to examine this one as well?"

The guard responded by roughly shoving back the Mad Hatter's arm. "I'll pass." He then pointed a threatening finger at Harriet. "You. Stop littering. And _you_," The guard again fixed his gaze onto Jervis. "Throw that shit out."

"Right-o," the Mad Hatter said pleasantly and leaned over the trashcan. But he only dropped in the first wrapper; the second, the one that concealed Dr. Williams's hearing aid, was hastily tucked underneath his rolled up shirt sleeve.

They were presently escorted their separate ways. The guards weren't taking Harriet to Leland's office for the psychologist was visiting out-of-town relatives. Instead, she was being sent to some novice called… Her brows furrowed as she tried to remember the guy's name. Zingerman? Zuckerman? Whoever he was, he was going to be her temporary psychologist until Leland returned.

There wasn't anything distinctive about his office, just a couch, a desk with a potted bonsai on it and a bookcase crammed with leather-bound hardbacks. That was something Harriet wondered about. Did he really read all those books or was it just to reassure the patients that yes, he was in fact a knowledgeable individual? He, like Leland had diplomas mounted on the wall, as though people were supposed to be impressed by his education.

"Hello. I'm Dr. Zimmerman." A short fellow with hair similar to duckling fluff shuffled forward with his pudgy hand outstretched. He must have been in his early twenties, but his round, babyish face and anxious expression gave the false impression of a kid fresh out of high school. His cheeks had started to redden the moment he uttered the word "doctor" and he had difficulty concealing the pleased smile. "Please, um, make yourself comfortable." And he gestured towards the couch. His class ring sparkled underneath the fluorescent lights; with its bulky design and oversized stone, the ring was one gaudy piece of jewelry. The novice plopped down behind his desk and began to rifle a stack of papers, clearly unprepared for this session. His elbow struck against a bottle of water which fell to the floor and trickled out. Zimmerman quickly bent down to retrieve it, accidentally bumping against the desk and causing the potted bonsai to fall off. The terracotta pot cracked open, exposing its roots and allowing the dirt to mix with the water, turning into mud and staining the carpet. Zimmerman hastily picked up the pieces, dumping both broken flowerpot and tree into the nearby waste basket.

"Good thing it's you who's here and not Miss Isley. She probably kill me." Zimmerman glanced eagerly in her direction to see her reaction. Harriet uninterestedly chewed on her thumbnail. It tore off and she examined the crescent-shaped peeling before flicking it way.

"Joan didn't say too much about you," Zimmerman began again, solemn this time, as if seriousness would compensate for his not-so-professional start. "Patient-doctor confidentiality, you see. Uh, let's see… She mentioned your criminal background and said you've got a tendency to randomly recite poetry, although now it's more of a quirk than it is a defense mechanism. Joan also said that you have been standoffish about one little itty bitty thing-" Here his voice went up several octaves "-and that's your childhood." His pen was tightly clutched in his hand and he again glanced optimistically at her. "Is there anything you would like to tell me?"

He couldn't quite hide his raring to go expression; the fact that this guy wanted to hear some juicy story couldn't be any more obvious. It seemed as though every inmate had one. Harriet, unfortunately, did not. She opened her mouth to explain that no, she wasn't abused as a child, and no, she never was battered as an adult, but that look on Zimmerman's infantile face stopped her. He _wanted_ some tear-jerking story. Harriet knew of several inmates who liked to toy with their doctors, particularly the doctors who were inexperienced. She never pulled that stunt with Leland- the woman was far too professional- but _this _was a golden opportunity. Besides, Harriet justified as she again looked at Zimmerman's eager expression, it would be callous of her _not _to tell him some tragic tale, like refusing to tell a kid a bedtime story.

"Did Dr. Leland tell you anything about my childhood?"

"I was told your parents are deceased. That's about it."

"That's true. They died when I was young and I was sent away since I didn't have any other relatives."

"I'm sorry to hear that. If you care to elaborate…"

"I was sent to a school that was made up of orphans, homeless kids and juvenile delinquents. 'Bad eggs,' as they like to call us, the school officials, I mean. They believed that suffering would modify our badness." His pen was scribbling away. Harriet almost smiled at his gullibility and resumed with her lie. "It was hot during the summer and cold during the winter. It was infested with rats. The younger kids used to play with them as though they were kittens." She enhanced the act by biting down on her tongue. Hard. Hard enough to draw blood. It produced the desired effect for because her eyes now welled because of the pain. "The officials had no qualms about hitting us with a switch- you should have seen some of the welts. Mr. Bumble was the one in charge and he used to justify this with longwinded speeches about curbing our behavior. Meals were horrible- They make the Arkham menu look like something out of a five star restaurant. The meals were always meager too. I was once beaten severely when I asked for more."

At once the pen stopped.

"And let me guess what happened next," Zimmerman said, "You escaped, met a kid called Dodger and joined a gang of street children?"

Harriet smiled- a genuine grin this time, not some simpering little smile- and leaned back. She spread her hands out in a gesture of defeat. "Okay. You caught me."

The doctor, a picture of smugness just moments ago, now looked deflated. "You really… You just can't… _Not _a joke," he floundered. He took a deep breath. "Why would you lie like that? Does your mental health mean _anything _to you?"

"At one time, believe it or not. I actually tried to get out of here and- Wait…" Her smile faded as the doctor's words sunk in. "You just accused me of lying."

"Well?" he countered sulkily. "Weren't you?"

"Yes, but be quiet for a moment, will you? Listen- any other doctor would have assumed that I really and truly believed my own lies. They would have spewed out some physiological explanation about how I can't tell the difference between fact and fiction or that I was just escaping from reality." It was true to some extent, but the entire staff made such a fuss about. Harriet recalled her disastrous hearing and glowered. "Stupid really. How many bored housewives escape by reading smutty romance novels? Are _they_ labeled as crazy?" She was getting off subject. "But you, on the other hand, knew I was lying, not because I'm delusional or insane, but because I was merely trying to have a bit of fun at your expense."

"I don't know whether I should be flattered or insulted by that," the doctor sighed. "They warned me, Leland and Bartholomew and Williams. They said that I didn't belong here and that I would be better off treating normal people, not insane criminals."

"They think you're too young to be taken seriously," Harriet said. She didn't particularly like Dr. Zimmerman, but she really had no true resentment towards him. She realized then that Zimmerman was just a little boy who wanted to impress the grownups. "I'll tell you what." She leaned forward and folded her arms against the desk. "How about I tell you a little about my childhood? That way you can rub it in their faces before you leave."

"_That _is entirely unprofessional," Zimmerman argued.

"I agree," she said with a shrug. "But it would be fun." She paused briefly before asking, "How do you like Dr. Williams?"

"What? Him? Oh…" His head drooped in shame. "He was the cruelest of the three. He said that I wouldn't last a week."

"Because of your age?"

"Because of my age."

Harriet nodded. "He judged you, just like he did me. Williams is a smug, nasty little man who said that I was dangerous. Look at me. Am I violent? No. But I did beat up another inmate my first morning here. I had no choice. The guards didn't help me because they were too busy making bets on how long I'd last." She was aware that one of the supervising guards squirmed uncomfortably and immediately understood why. Her eyes narrowed. "Yeah, that's right," she snarled piercingly. "You _ought_ to squirm. Didn't expect me to win that fight, did you? At any rate," she continued, shifting back to Zimmerman, her hostile tone turning cheery again. "the fact that I befriended Jervis Tetch didn't help matters. You know who he is, I'm sure. The Mad Hatter? Anyway, I'm not a psychologist, never even studied the subject, but I've gotten the gist of how the mind works thanks to all the sessions I've had. So let me help you. I'll tell you exactly why I am the way that I am." Harriet smiled sweetly. "It will make Dr. Williams angry if you prove to be a good psychologist, and it will make an impact on both Leland and Bartholomew."

Zimmerman hesitated. "If you're not dangerous, then why are you in Arkham?"

"Because I did something bad. Because I felt confused and betrayed and I sincerely thought that by hurting one person I would be saving another person's life."

"And you want to help me _why?_"

"Because I don't like the way they treated you. Because I'm sure that part of you wants to prove them wrong. It would be impressive, wouldn't it, if some novice was able to explain my _quirks_ in just one day?"

Zimmerman stared at her blankly for just a fraction of a second before taking the bait. He grabbed hold of his notepad, tore out the page that was made up of her lies and tossed it in the wastebasket.

"Are you ready?" Harriet asked.

"You're not going to lie again, are you?"

"No," she answered truthfully and she frowned at the notepad. "Don't you have a tape recorder?"

"Yeah, but it doesn't really work." Zimmerman opened up a desk drawer, pulled out a palm-sized recorder. "The stop button keeps getting jammed and the sound is kind of static." He pushed it aside and nodded. "Go on."

"My parents are deceased, just like Leland said," Harriet began after taking a long look at the useless tape recorder. "Mom was the first to go. She died when I was about two. Train wreck. So I was brought up by my no-nonsense, unsmiling, practical father. He used to stress the importance of an education and would rifle through my schoolwork each and every night, poring over every last thing. It was as though he was looking for a reason to holler at me. If my work was perfect- which was rare, by the way- Dad would boast about how I had inherited his brains. If there was a mistake, he would scream about how stupid I was. If I got anything less than an A, I was punished. If I didn't win first place at a spelling bee, I was punished. If I… Well, you get the idea. Being questioned, being judged, being examined- I hate it all because I always feel as though people are just looking for an excuse to find fault with me. I have Daddy to thank for it. He died when I was nineteen. Heart attack."

"Ah, good, I've got that all down." Zimmerman's pink flabby face became even pinker. "No, wait, I mean, that's not good. I'm sorry to hear about your dad dying. If truth be told, I was expecting-"

"Something more tragic?" Harriet interjected. "You sound as though you want me to tell more lies."

"No, I'm sorry. Please go on."

"I never really had a childhood. Toys, dolls, friends... I never had _any_ of that. I wasn't allowed to have kids over at my house. 'Dim-witted, bungling little brats who do nothing but giggle,' Dad used to say. Dad thought toys were stupid. Christmases and birthdays… I begged for dolls and tea sets. What did I get? Dictionaries and encyclopedias. That's right. He gave a five-year-old a set of encyclopedias for Christmas when all she asked for was a Chatty Kathy."

That explained why she always made toys during Arts and Crafts. Odd, really, that she had not made that connection until now.

"So I gravitated towards books, like a good, smart, little girl. Dad was perfectly okay with that, just as long as I read more grownup things. Chaucer, Milton, Swift…"

"Dickens?" Zimmerman offered.

"Exactly. Those books helped me escape from reality. After all, it was better to have fictional friends than no friends at all. So then Dad died and later-" A genuine smile of joy subsequently spread across her face "-I was sent to this place, only to encounter one of the world's most beloved literary characters. I had the privilege of meeting someone who represented everything I had ever wanted as a child: wonderment, imagination, a world of nonsense and everlasting tea parties."

The psychologist smiled triumphantly once she was through. "Wow, this is great. Really, really great. I can't wait to see their faces when- Ah, well, never mind." Zimmerman again attempted to maintain a professional appearance. "I can't thank you enough. If there's anything I can do, just let me know."

Her eyes again darted towards the recorder. Something filed with wires, something that would be easy to dismantle. "Does that thing play music?"

"That? Yeah, but like I said, the sound isn't too great." He pulled out a cassette, placed it inside and struck the play button. A jazzy rendition of "We Three Kings" was faintly heard.

"Can I borrow it?" Harriet asked quietly. "It would be nice listen to some carols." She gave a dispirited sigh. "It's not very festive in here. And the fact that we can't even have a tree is just downright sad."

"The staff told me that trees are now prohibited. They didn't go into details _why_, but they hinted around that the Joker has something to do with it." Zimmerman hesitated. "I know that it isn't too Christmassy and I _would _like to loan you this, but-" He stopped in mid-sentence and looked at the disappointment on his patient's face. "But nothing. Here- this is for helping me today." Zimmerman placed the tape recorder in her hand. He then rose from his seat with an air of dignity, like a long-established doctor saying goodbye to his patient. "Today's session is over. I'll see you after Christmas. Let me escort you back to your cell."

"No," Harriet corrected, "I need to go to the recreation room. I now go there after my therapy sessions."

"Oh. Right. Well then…"

Dr. Zimmerman walked beside her down the corridor, the pair of guards trailing behind them at a reasonable distance. He cleared his throat. "Look, Ms. March, I know my opinion doesn't matter much, but I really don't think you belong in this ward. I don't even think you belong in Arkham. If I were more esteemed, I would petition that you be sent to a different facility and-" He opened the door to the recreation room. "-And see to it that you are not housed with these deranged maniacs who are clearly-"

A sneering voice interrupted the psychologist. "If it isn't little Hubert Zimmerman." The Scarecrow, sprawled across the couch, set aside the magazine he was reading and unhurriedly got to his feet. He slunk forward like a creeping daddy longlegs. "Just when I think that this deplorable dung-heap couldn't get any more incompetent, they manage to prove me wrong by hiring the dimmest dolt I ever had the misfortune to teach."

Dr. Zimmerman gaped at the lanky inmate in disbelief. "Mr. Crane?"

"That's _Professor _Crane, you bumbling blockhead."

The doctor winced. "Yes, _Professor_, of course… I thought, considering the circumstances… Never mind."

He speedily exited.

"I speculate that Mr. Zimmerman will be departing from Arkham," Scarecrow said drawlingly, seating himself on the couch and thumbing through an issue of National Geographic. "He always was a cowardly little cretin."

_Author's Note: I want to thank my reviewers. You guys gave me some amazing feedback and I can't tell you how grateful I am. Once again, thank you so much!_


	12. Arkham's House of Freaks

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of the Mad Hatter, the Ventriloquist or the Scarecrow. They belong to DC Comics and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own the poems used in this chapter. "Adventures of Isabel" belongs to Ogden Nash. **

**I would like to warn everyone that this chapter has language, violence and sexual content, though not enough to give it an "M" rating . **

Yesterday the asylum had been so bleak that one would hardly know that December 25th was drawing near. Scarecrow now stepped into the lunchroom with an expression of shear disgust. Each table had an absurd assortment of Christmas decorations: papier-mâché Santas, cardboard gingerbread houses as well as other equally repellent knickknacks. It was like this every heinous holiday. Things would be dour until some bleeding heart do-gooder had to ruin it all by deciding that Arkham should be less like a prison and more like some bright and cheery institution. There were the types who watched one too many Christmas specials on television and were stupid enough to believe in all that good-will-towards-man tripe. Scarecrow grabbed his meal. He lifted up a tinselly strand of garland with the same repulsion of someone holding a worm and tossed it aside before taking his seat. Truthfully today's breakfast was better than their usual morning meal: scrambled eggs served with a few slices of bacon and toast. The Mad Hatter, sitting beside him, was happily sipping his orange juice. He looked as though was actually enjoying the revolting atmosphere. There was a ridiculous smile on the Englishman's face.

There were also bags underneath his bloodshot eyes.

"Not sleeping well?" Scarecrow asked in mock concern. The Mad Hatter bit into his buttered toast and said nothing. "You're not as clever as you think you are," he continued after looking around warily. "Just because the guards are thick enough not to know what the hell is going on doesn't mean the rest of us don't have a clue. We all know that you've been staying up all night and we all know that you're working on something."

The Mad Hatter grinned guiltily but denied nothing.

"So?" Scarecrow demanded edgily. "When will it be ready?"

"_The time has come, the Walrus said-"_

"Damn it, Tetch! You know that annoys me!" Of course he knew that annoyed him. That's why he did it, the infuriating little cockroach.

"I was able to snatch a guard's wristwatch when it slipped off," Jervis proceeded to boast after he too glanced around to see if there were any nearby guards. "The muttonhead never even noticed. And last night the March Hare returned that puzzle I had loaned her. I couldn't help noticing that it was slightly heavier than it was before and soon discovered that disassembled wires were buried underneath the pieces and-"

Scarecrow brandished an indignant hand. "Never mind all that! When will it be done?"

Jervis again spewed out some dratted Carroll poem. "_When the moon is shining sulkily."_

A surge of threats and curses distracted them both.

"Please, Mr. Scarface," Wesker begged after Scarface's angry outburst. "You've gotta eat _something." _He persistently raised a forkful of scrambled eggs to the puppet's mouth.

"I said I ain't eating that garbage!" Scarface kicked the tray aside; bacon and eggs fell onto the floor. "You like the grub so much? Then how 'bout you eat it?" Wesker's apology turned into a gasp of terror as Scarface snatched hold of his shirt collar. "I said _eat it_!" Wesker obediently set the puppet aside as he began to crawl around on all fours. He scooped up a handful of yellow egg and stared down at it, afraid to disobey Scarface's orders and yet hesitant to eat food from off an unclean floor. At last the Ventriloquist succumbed to his fears, shoved the eggs into his mouth and swallowed. The puppet cackled victoriously. "Yeah, tastes real good, don't it, Dummy?"

That was the only eventful thing that happened that morning.

Lunch came and went.

The March woman joined them that evening since the sexes were permitted to mingle during Christmas dinner. She and Wesker, engaged in conversation as they approached the table with their trays in hand, were actually behaving civilly towards one another. Of course, that was purely because Scarface wasn't there with them.

"I'm real sorry about the way my boss talks to you, Miss Harriet. There's nothing I can do to stop him." He proceeded to make excuses his own behavior by adding, "Mr. Scarface hasn't been sleeping well and he gets awfully grumpy." The old man sat down and gingerly rubbed his bruised forehead. "Maybe he'll be in a better mood when he wakes up from his nap. Oh, dear-" Wesker was now wringing his hands together. "Mr. Scarface won't be happy when he finds out that I've been apologizing for him. You won't say anything, will you?"

The March woman shook her head no, but other than that failed to respond to Wesker's question. She took a seat next to Scarecrow. Jonathon bristled in irritation. Sharing a table was one thing; sitting side-by-side was too much. She was the Hatter's pet and therefore it was his duty to control her. But unfortunately Jervis was still waiting in line. Jonathan shot an indignant glance towards the Ventriloquist as if expecting the old man to do something about it. Wesker only sighed unhappily; it was clear that he wished that Scarface was with him. Apparently Wesker felt that being abused was better than being alone.

Jonathan heard the March woman clear her throat, but ignored it. He was about to take a drink when her long fingers began to wrap themselves around his wrist. The Scarecrow tried to jerk his arm away. Water sloshed out of the plastic cup and he threw the March woman a look of cold belligerence. "Unhand me."

March was wise enough to comply. "I need to talk to you," she said. "I know that you don't like me." She pushed a handful of paper napkins towards him so that he could mop up the spilled drink. "But you need to listen to what I have to say."

Scarecrow shoved the napkins right back. "Dislike is an overstatement, child. I merely _tolerate _you." Imperiously, he added, "You want to talk to me? Well, what are you waiting for! Spit it out!"

"Tonight the guards are going to enter the Hatter's cell." She was moving her lips as little as possible. "When that happens, provoke me. Just be your hateful self."

"So, the guards are going to enter Tetch's cell, are they? And how is he going to make that happen?"

"He'll improvise," she answered in a tone of dedicated certainty.

Any form of elaboration was prevented by a pair of approaching guards. Jervis was now at the table and the March woman instantly moved away so that she could take her place at the Hatter's right-hand side. They all fell into their normal, everyday behavior as the guards continued to draw near. The Ventriloquist picked at his meal; the Hatter and the March woman jabbered about trifling things and, as always, the Scarecrow brooded.

"Enjoying your din-din?"

They unanimously became still.

"What about you, Johnny Boy," the guard continued while his smirking companion hovered within hearing range. "I hope you're eating- You need to fatten up." Jonathan yawned deliberately, but said nothing. "And as for you, Hattie-" he began to poorly imitate a Cockney accent -"_too bad that there is no tea n' crumpets for you." _Jervis smiled serenely. Disappointed by the lack of negative reaction, the guard began to circle the table. His eyes briefly rested on Wesker. Without Scarface, the old man's violent persona would remain dormant. Sensing that provoking the puppet-free Wesker would be ineffective, the guard diverted his attention towards the March woman.

"You know something, Sweetheart? You're cute looking." He leaned over her and shamelessly stared down at her chest. "Some of these women here… Desperate, you know. Eager for a little male companionship." He pressed himself against the back of her chair. The March woman tensed and her fingers curled like talons. "If you're interested-"

"She isn't," the Mad Hatter intervened starkly.

"-All you have to do is say the word." The guard bent down to adjust the napkin that laid crumpled in her lap. From afar it might have looked like a helpful act. But the guard's face was almost brushing against the March woman's neck; a strand of flurrying hair insinuated that he had blown into her ear. She made a sudden move as if to attack, but the Hatter interceded.

"Keep your temper," he warned urgently. He placed his hand on her arm in a silent display of ownership

The lunchroom suddenly echoed with high pitched shrieks. Some inmates had chosen that precise moment to get into a catfight. A heavily tattooed inmate that Scarecrow guessed was female and a middle-aged blonde were at each other's throats.

"Aw, shit," the guard grumbled as he straightened himself up. He mockingly saluted everyone at the table. "Well, folks, I hope you've had a jolly little Christmas. But," he added, sending the other guard a shifty grin, "the real fun's gonna take place tonight." They subsequently raced towards the far end of the lunchroom where the tattooed inmate was now pummeling the nearly unconscious blonde.

Jonathan had disregarded the guard's idle threat. Just a dimwitted goon attempting to sound intimidating.

That night he laid on his cot, as still as a corpse in a coffin, smiling because every now and then some madman's scream would reverberate throughout the asylum. Occasionally a few of the more deranged inmates would turn their fury onto themselves during the night. They would bite into their flesh and rake open their faces with their nails. They would scream and plead, unaware that _they_ were the ones inflicting the damage. And then came the sound of approaching footsteps, a faint, but distinct, _clomp, clomp, clomp_. The Scarecrow tensely lifted his head. The guards were now making their rounds through C Block. Jonathan peered into Jervis's cell were a obscure form kept shifting about.

"_Tapping at the windows, crying at the lock," _the Scarecrow muttered. "_Are the children in their beds for it's past ten o'clock." _

Jervis must have heard them because his shadowy figure froze. He hurriedly approached his cot, but sat up instead of feigning sleep. Orbs of light began to bounce off the corridor walls as the guards entered their ward. There were only three of them. Jonathan watched beadily.

"Look, can we just get this over with?" The panicked voice clearly belonged to a rookie. "This place gives me the creeps."

"Hey, it's just part of the initiation. Every new guard must participate in a late night showing of Arkham's House of Freaks." He laughed. "Don't be such a wimp."

Scarecrow knew that voice. It was the same guy who hassled them during dinner.

"I don't recall _you_ being so brave," said a third guard. "You just about pissed in your pants, remember?"

"Yeah, well, that's because Puke-Face was there," the second guard answered defensively. "Shit. There he was, flipping that damn coin of his, glaring at me like he couldn't decide whether he wanted to shoot me or strangle me. It's enough to scare the hell out of anyone." His insulted voice turned jaunty. "Too bad that there won't be much of a show tonight- Most of the more famous baddies are gone."

"What about Poison Ivy?" the rookie asked hopefully in spite of his apprehension.

"Nah, the plant lady escaped about two months ago. The crazy clown girl isn't here either. The only chick you'll get to see is that one who smacked the shit out of old man Williams."

"Come on, come on,' the third guard said. "We haven't got all night." His baton whacked loudly against the glass. "ALL RIGHT, FREAKS! CURTAIN TIME!"

He now cleared his throat and began to speak like a sideshow barker as the second guard pushed the rookie forward. "This is it! Gotham's most unhinged and unbalanced! See the Scarecrow!" The flashlight was now shining into his cell. "Jonathan Crane. Once a respected professor, fated to become the menacing monster you now see before you! Don't let his skinny frame fool you, my good man! Capable of creating ghastly hallucinations, this loathsome creature can make even the strongest man go down in defeat!"

The Scarecrow proudly smiled.

The rookie gulped as the second guard directed him towards Jervis's cell.

"Next, is the Mad Hatter," the third guard continued. "Hear the sad and tragic tale of Jervis Tetch! Doomed to fall in love with a coworker almost half his age. Spurned, he emerged as the Mad Hatter and created a warped fantasy land-"

"All in a desperate attempt to get laid," the second guard interrupted.

That put an end to the theatrical overtones. The guards, including the rookie, laughed, not noticing that the Mad Hatter had gotten up and was slowly advancing towards the glass with clenched fists. Amused, the Scarecrow propped himself up so that he could watch.

"You boorish sods," the Mad Hatter fumed. "Uncouth, loutish brutes! You…you… Argh!" Jervis's face screwed in pain and he slumped against the pane while gripping at his chest. He made a desperate attempt to stand up straight so that he could fling out one final insult. "…Vulgar pieces of _grunge_," he rasped. And then the Mad Hatter plummeted to the floor, desperately gulping for air and unleashing ragged breaths.

The hallway lights came on at once.

"Holy crap!" The guards hastily unlocked the door. "Don't do this. Not on my shift!" They rushed in and gathered round the Mad Hatter. Jonathon got out of bed and meandered towards the glass so that he could get a better view of the performance.

"What's happening?" a panic-stricken voice cried out. Scarecrow looked over and saw the March woman's form standing behind the glass barrier of her cell. "What's happening to Jervis?"

"He's having a heart attack," Jonathan answered with an indifferent shrug. Callously he added, "He's _dying_."

"No, he's not! He's not, he's not!"

"Yes, child," he purposefully goaded. "Your only friend is dying. Do you know what happens to inmates who die in Arkham?" He spryly crossed his arms and smiled. "Their bodies are dissected and their brains are removed because scientists _love_ to get their greedy little hands on abnormal noggins such as the Hatter's-"

"March, don't listen to him! He's just trying to stir up shit!"

"Oh, but she _knows _that I'm speaking the truth. Isn't that right, child?"

"SHUT UP, CRANE! JUST SHUT THE _HELL_ UP!"

"JERVIS!" March clawed at the glass. "Let me out! Let me out! Jervis!" She suddenly rammed into the pane, having the good sense to strike with the side of her body instead of her head. She tottered back clumsily, clutching her arm. For a moment it looked as though March was going to give up, but then she took a several paces back and bounded across her cell, slamming herself into the pane once again. And again. And again.

"MARCH! CALM YOUR ASS DOWN!" The second guard leaned over the gasping Mad Hatter as the third guard placed two fingers against Jervis's wrist. "He's not dying, is he? How's his pulse?" He was practically yelling because of the March woman's screams were now mingling with the loud thuds. "Shut up, March!" Another thud. Another scream. "Okay, that's it! You-" He was looking at the rookie. "Put her in a straitjacket before that crazy bitch knocks herself unconscious!"

"Straightjacket?" the rookie echoed helplessly.

Thud. Scream.

"In the closet, next to the staircase!"

"Oh! Right!" He exited the Hatter's cell.

"And then page the nurse and tell her to bring some sedatives!" the guard shouted after him.

"No," Tetch gasped and he feebly tried to rise. "No! Stay away from her."

"Calm down, calm down," the third guard said. "He's not going to hurt your little friend."

Jonathan flicked his eyes towards the Hare's cell. The rookie was now entering with the straightjacket clutched in his hands. The March woman looked at him and scurried to the corner of the cell while shrieking, "_Isabel met a troublesome doctor. He punched and he poked her till he really shocked her." _

The Scarecrow glanced back at the Hatter and saw that Jervis was again attempting to stand. His hands were still tightly rolled into fists. He tottered hazardously.

"Whoa! Easy there, Tetch, easy there," the third guard murmured. He reached out to hold him steady. "Come on, Tetch-" he swung the Mad Hatter's arm over his shoulder. "Let's take you down to the infirmary and-" A sharp _crack _came out of the March Woman's cell "-_What the hell_?"

"Hey, you all right in there?" the third guard called out to the rookie. There was no answer. Jervis fingers were slowly uncurling meanwhile. Something flesh-colored and cashew-sized was laying on the palm of his hand. "ARE YOU ALL RIGHT IN THERE?" The rookie still did not respond. Neither of the guards noticed that Jervis's hand was gradually inching closer to the man's head.

The Mad Hatter then took full advantage of their negligent blunder. He plunged the small object into the third guard's ear.

"Better go and check on him," the second guard continued, still oblivious to what was actually happening. "The dumb-ass obviously doesn't know what the hell he's doing."

The Scarecrow spoke up. "And neither do you, for that matter." The guard, used to his sneering remarks concerning the Arkham staff, merely smirked.

He was about to leave when he noticed that the Mad Hatter was no longer slouched over and gasping for breath. Jervis stood there, composed and serene, straightening his top hat. For a fraction of a moment the guard wore a dumbfounded expression. He glanced questioningly at his cohort as if waiting for an explanation. He seemed to think that perhaps this was a joke arranged between him and the Arkham inmate. Only the third guard stood wordlessly in front of the Mad Hatter like some mechanized bodyguard. Then the second guard appeared to understand and he wore an expression of pure terror. He attempted to reach his gun, only to be tackled by the mind controlled guard. The weapon skidded across the floor during their scuffle.

"I made a very beneficial discovery a while back," the Mad Hatter said conversationally as the guard was bodily thrown against the stone wall. "That mind control stimulates physical strength. Allow me to demonstrate." The manipulated guard slammed his fist into the second guard's face. "Enormously convenient, no?"

The March woman then strode into the cell, massaging her hand. Her face was still red from her little performance and there was a worried crease between her brows, but otherwise she was just as calm and collected as the Hatter.

"Ah," Jervis continued upon seeing her, "I couldn't have done this without the assistance of my industrious March Hare." He chivalrously stretched out his hand; March promptly stepped forward and laid her hand in his. He cast her a gracious smile. "By the way, m'dear, just how did you handle that inexperienced chap?"

"I boxed his ears," she answered readily. The Scarecrow again peered inside her cell. The unconscious rookie was laying on the floor, wearing the straightjacket that he had attempted to put her in. A trickle of blood ran out of his ear and down his neck. Strangely enough, she had also placed a pillow underneath his head as if to establish the fact that she wasn't quite ready to step over that fine line between morality and villainy.

"Well, m'dear, I must say that you performed splendidly." The Mad Hatter tilted up the chin of his compliant pet. "You've done well." March beamed a radiant smile, but the seriousness of the situation quickly put an end to her gloating.

"I wasn't prepared for three of them" Jervis went on, "and so I am very glad you took the initiative and- uh-uh-uh!" The second guard unexpectedly swooped for the gun. Jervis reacted by making his mind controlled pawn lunge forward in attack.

"Snap out of it!" the second guard screamed. "For the love of God, snap out of it!" He began to take swipes at his brainwashed assailant, even hitting him once or twice with the baton. His clouts were ineffective and soon the second guard was left dangling in the man's grasp, hanging there like a bird with one wing ensnared in a net. He winced as the Mad Hatter forced the third guard to tighten his grip. And then, just when it looked as though the bones were going to snap, the third guard punched him again in the face. He fell to the floor and almost immediately received a sharp kick in the stomach.

"You were quite disrespectful my dear friend this evening," Jervis chided. His tone was still icily polite, but a vengeful glint was gleaming in the Hatter's eyes. Even the Hare's restrained veneer was crumbling; her lips were twitching upwards and soon she was smiling smugly. "I think you should apologize."

The second guard looked up. His face was bloody and his noise had been reduced to a spongy mess. "Like hell I will. I don't apologize to freaks."

Jervis sighed. "I though perhaps a sound beating would have instilled some manners. I'm afraid I have no choice." The third guard lumbered forward and lifted the victim from off the floor.

The second guard changed his tune real quick. "Okay, okay! I'm sorry!" But it was too late. He let out a terrified whimper and desperately tried to pry off the third guard's fingers. He was then once again thrown up against the wall, face first. The man bounced off and landed in an unconscious heap.

"Now," said the Mad Hatter, "go and release Scarecrow." The mind controlled guard automatically obeyed the command.

"Yo, dirt-bags! What about me and Dummy here?"

"And release the Ventriloquist while you're at it."

"So…" Jonathan nonchalantly stepped out of his unlocked cell. "I presume I won't be seeing you for some time."

Jervis was grave. "Take care of yourself."

Scarecrow was never one for sentimental goodbyes. He nodded his head in acknowledgement towards his friend. "Hatter." And then, out of respect for the Mad Hatter, he turned halfway towards the March woman. "March Hare." She looked surprised but not unpleased by this.

The sirens began to blares and it became a deal of every man for himself. They sprinted out of Arkham and the deranged idiot whose cell was next the Mad Hatter's, who had been remarkably quiet until now, began to bellow like a bull, furious that he was being left behind.

**Author's note: I'm sorry this took so long. I know that this chapter is ridiculously long, buy I seriously could not stop writing. **


	13. All Must Have Prizes

**Disclaimer: I do not own the character of Jervis Tetch. He belongs to DC Comics and Warner Brothers. **

The Mad Hatter disdainfully contemplated on his current state of affairs. He and the March Hare were now being chauffeured by some character who had stupidly offered a ride to what he thought were hitchhikers. True, this dense fellow soon saw their asylum uniforms and attempted to drive off, but Jervis quickly made him change his mind. Unfortunately they were now riding inside a beat-up minivan that reeked of beer and cheese. It was degrading. Of course, it was only temporary. The Mad Hatter knew that he-_they_- could easily build a fortune for themselves. The idea of not one, but _two,_ creative minds working together was enticing. Such possibilities! With just a little bit of brainstorming, he and the March Hare could really astound all of Gotham. Would she go along with it though? Harriet had been surprisingly corporative so far. Yet Jervis hated the idea of turning Miss Harriet into a criminal, but… She already _was_ a criminal, he reminded himself. She was a criminal even before he met her. So technically, the Mad Hatter hadn't corrupted her.

Just one last hurrah, Jervis promised himself. One final glorious act to show everyone, including that vile bat, that the Mad Hatter was capable of triumphing. Undoubtedly Batman would show up in an attempt to spoil everything. Jervis had no intention of letting the March Hare fight that pointy-eared pest and felt the need to keep her existence a secret, especially since Batman seemed dedicated on ruining his life. Jervis could not help but worry because Harriet had more than once exhibited uncontrolled behavior and she just might be reckless enough to challenge that wretched vigilante. But the Mad Hatter saw no reason why she couldn't participate in _some _unlawful activity, just as long as it didn't involve fighting an overgrown rodent.

And after his grand finale, the Mad Hatter continued to muse, he would then achieve his ultimate goal and settle down in domestic bliss. A home, a wife, children… And living far away from Gotham. Jervis had grown to detest this city. He hated the smoggy skies, the polluted waters, the number of degenerates that crawled over the town like lice on an unhygienic head. He sometimes thought longingly of the English countryside and the quiet seashore. _That _was the kind of place where he wanted to retire.

He sighed and absentmindedly ran his finger across the steamed up glass. The March Hare was busy rifling through the driver's wallet. Jervis glanced at the glowing numbers of the car clock. It was still Christmas day.

"There's only a few dollar bills in here," the March Hare said suddenly. "There's no credit cards either. I think we should stop at Liddell's Tea Room. There's food there. And money. And Mrs. Liddell won't be around because she always visits her sister during the holidays. I know we can't stay at that place for _too_ long," she added quickly as if fearful of the Hatter rejecting this idea. "_But _I also have a car. We can't be chauffeured by _him _all night." And she motioned towards the brainwashed driver.

She was right, Jervis realized. They certainly couldn't spend the rest of the day going around in circles like participants at a Caucus Race. "Yes, yes, you're quite correct." Harriet proceeded to give him the directions as he controlled the actions of the puppet until the minivan stopped in front of a Tudor style house on Gatwick Street.

"Now," the Mad Hatter instructed as he prepared to exit the car, "turn off the engine and go to sleep." He waited until the man was snoring soundly before repossessing the mind chip, which unexpectedly released a series of sparks. There was a faint _sizzle _followed by a wisp of smoke and Jervis knew that the chip had died. He flicked the useless thing away. No matter. He could easily create others.

Jervis followed Harriet up a snow-covered pathway. From a distance the house looked pristine- charming even- but the closer he got the more he realized just how dilapidated it really was. There were cracks in the diamond paneled windows; the gutters were rusty and the wood seemed almost termite infested. They went around to the backyard where the main feature was a rundown, vine-covered fountain that looked as though it had been out of order for at least a decade. The yard was plagued with thorny brambles that ensnared their clothes. Harriet cautiously climbed up a rickety spiral staircase, her hands clutching the rails to prevent herself from slipping on the icy steps. The Mad Hatter continued to follow her and stood on the balcony as he waited patiently for the March Hare to locate a spare key that was hidden inside a broken light fixture. She unlocked the door and together they stepped into a dark room.

"Wait here," the March Hare said and she was swallowed up by the shadows. Jervis could hear her fumbling around until the lights were suddenly switched on. He blinked and found himself standing in a bedroom, that, judging by the fact that Harriet was now rummaging through the dresser drawers, had once belonged to her.

He allowed himself to leisurely examine the room after Harriet had excused herself and disappeared. The walls were a blinding shade of yellow, the furniture mainly white wicker. There was an abandoned feeling about the room and Jervis could see the dusty shelves and the cobwebs that clung to the lamps. He also noticed a vase of withered roses sitting there on her dresser and wondered if they had been sent to her by her former fiancé, that Lawrence Frizzel fellow. Jervis indignantly remembered how the lizard had swooped in and presented Alice with the unimaginative gift of a single red rose. He also remembered how he refused to be outdone and practically gave Alice an entire florist shop after that. Jervis was familiar with the Victorian use of _The Language of Flowers _and so he had provided her with flowers that symbolized his despondency.

_Moonflower_: Dreaming of love

_Jonquil_: Return my affection

_Marigold_: Pain and grief

It was to prove that flowers could indeed talk.

Jervis now contemptuously dumped the roses- vase and all- into the wastebasket before strolling towards the bookcase. It was crammed from top to bottom, but there was a photo album tucked away on the bottom shelf. He knew that it was prying, yet he really could not stop himself from glimpsing at the March Hare's childhood. The Mad Hatter gave a backwards glance and saw that Harriet was still absent. He ultimately began to leaf through the album. A majority of the photos were of Harriet. A few were of a stern-faced man that Jervis frankly did not like the looks of.

"Turn the page."

Jervis was surprised to see that the March Hare was standing beside him. She had changed into a pair of slacks and a caterpillar-colored sweater. It wasn't exactly close-fitting material, but it was enough to emphasize her figure. After months of seeing Miss March in a uniform that made her shape somewhat ambiguous, the modification of wardrobe seemed like a drastic transformation. Flustered, Jervis began to put the photo album aside.

"No," she said, pushing it back towards him. "I wantyou to see."

The March Hare pointed at a photo of a group of uniform clad schoolgirls standing next to a nun. A preteen Harriet was standing in the front row, her lids half-closed. "That photo was taken the morning after my dad punished me for not making high marks on a history test. He made me stay up that entire night, making me read and reread my textbook. He quizzed me relentlessly. And if I answered wrong or if my answers didn't come fast enough, he would throw the history book at me. '_Read it again! Read it again until you get it right, brainless girl_!' I couldn't do it. I was scared. I was tired. I couldn't even think straight. And when he caught me dozing off, he lectured me about being a-" She made an exaggerated scowl and deepened her voice -"'_a stupid, lazy dunce_.'" The March Hare began to shake a finger as she continued to impersonate her father. "'_Keep it up, and you'll end up in a homeless shelter with all the other degenerates who are too lazy and stupid to get a job_!'"

"I'm truly sorry," Jervis said quietly. "I never knew that you were abused."

"I wasn't!" Harriet objected with genuine surprise. "My dad _never_ hit me." And she shook her head in bafflement.

There was a long, awkward pause.

The March Hare's hand unexpectedly crept up to rest on the crook of the Hatter's arm. "I'm happy with you, Jervis. Have I ever told you that? No… I didn't. I didn't tell you anything about me. I couldn't, not when there were guards and surveillance cameras and people prying, prying and prying some more." Her words apparently reminded her that such constant scrutiny was no longer being administered because the March Hare suddenly sprung into his arms, buckled her knees and nestled her head against his chest. Jervis almost staggered back in alarm at this unforeseen show of affection. He bewilderedly stared down at the top of her head.

"You _do_ care for me, don't you, m' sweet?" The tussled head nodded as she tightened her grip. "All must have prizes," he said.

He credited himself with this unquestionable attachment. Poor little soul, being terrorized and disregarded all her life. It was not only her father. He knew little about that Frizzel fellow; he instinctively equated him with the Lizard: ignorant, crass and unappreciative of what he had. And those cold, unfeeling doctors! The Mad Hatter knew all about their trickery. He knew that they pretended to be understanding and nonjudgmental while asking personal questions, but show any sign of reaction and they quick call for security. The March Hare had ultimately realized this as well. And she had been so hopeful about being released, poor dear. It was no wonder that she gradually began focusing her attention towards the sole person who actually made her happy. The Mad Hatter had, after all, befriended the March Hare, all while showing her a considerable amount of kindness and understanding over the past few months.

At that very second, the balcony door unexpectedly burst open and slammed against the wall with a forceful thud. The March Hare cavorted backwards at the sound. She spun around and seized a lamp in preparation for battle, only to see that her opponent was merely the wind.

"No one there. I thought…" She lowered her arm. "Never mind." The March Hare laughed at her madcap blunder and tossed the lamp aside. She strolled to the balcony door, locked it and drew back the curtain. Harriet gazed quietly upwards. "I see the bat-signal." She released the curtain. The drape fell in place with a gentle, swaying motion as the March Hare turned around, her fingers tugging at a loose thread on her sweater. "Do you think he's after you?"

"It's possible," Jervis answered with an air of indifference. "An Arkham breakout is a serious matter and that ill-mannered guard- once he gained consciousness- would have alerted the police. And unfortunately I'm certain that that wretched, cowl-wearing fiend now knows about it."

The March Hare was still tugging at that loose strand of blue thread. There was a frozen expression on her face as if she was contemplating something. It then manifested into fretfulness. She started shifting and writhing, her arms now tightly wrapped around herself like a straightjacket. Gradually, she raised one hand to her mouth and consequently began to gnaw on her fingernails. After another moment or two, her expression again altered. The brows furrowed, the nostrils flared, and flames seemed to crackle in her dark eyes. For such a doe-eyed, gentle-faced creature, it was amazing how she could suddenly take on the appearance of a jabberwocky. He had seen her hysterical once before, but this was the first time Jervis actually saw a hint of definite madness. Harriet's lips began to move furiously, no doubt noiselessly muttering a poem. And then the March Hare abruptly yanked out the thread with a little more force than what was really necessary.

"I don't want him to take you away," she declared feverently.

Jervis briefly wondered if this was how the March Hare acted when she had made the decision to go after Frizzel. He remembered her explaining why she did what she did; it was an attempt to protect the old woman she worked for. Harriet's voice echoed inside his head. "_I thought Lawrence was trying to kill her." _

If Batman went after him, the Mad Hatter pondered, would the March Hare actually attempt to fight the Dark Knight? The thought made him shudder.

"Now, really, m'dear, everything will be alright, I promise," Jervis said quickly and he was relieved to see that her anger began to wane. "Let me go downstairs," he politely offered. "I'll gather up some food and prepare some tea. It will do us both a whole lot of good."

"Oh. Yes. I'd like that," the March Hare said mechanically. She then frowned and blinked and gave her head a slight shake before smiling appreciatively. "I better start packing too." Harriet went to the closet and lugged out two suitcases. She gave one to Jervis. "The kitchen is downstairs and to the left. And Hatter?"

"Yes?"

"If you see any gadgets and whatnot that might come in handy, help yourself."

He stumbled through the unlit hallway and down the narrow staircase. It didn't take him long to locate the kitchen. Jervis could hear the floorboards creaking overhead as Harriet scrambled back and forth. He switched on the kitchen lights and immediately began to rummage through the cabinets. There were canned vegetables and loaves of bread and jars of jam. "Jam tomorrow and jam yesterday, but never jam today," he said to himself as he emptied out the pantry. There was tea too, and lots of it. A good, sound cup of ginger tea should do the trick. Jervis filled up a kettle with water from the sink and brewed it on the outmoded stove.

He already had the hot drink poured into two teacups by the time the March Hare stepped into the kitchen with her packed suitcase. She was wearing a long, old-fashioned coat and had another one draped across her arm. Harriet set the suitcase down.

"I'm not sure if it's like the one you had before," she said, "but it was the best I could find." The March Hare stood there with the coat held out. Smiling, Jervis turned his back and slid his arms through the sleeves. She glided in front of him and attentively brushed off a few pieces of lint.

"Thank you, m'dear," Jervis said and he glanced at the cuckoo clock. "We mustn't dawdle. A cup of tea and then we'll leave."

They exited the kitchen and entered the tearoom's dining area. There was the distinctive musty odor of mothballs blended with the overly sweet smell of potpourri. Even in the dim, scarcely lit room, Jervis could see the markings of an elderly woman. There was much too much frills and lace. Oval-shaped paintings of fuchsia roses, all of them clearly done by the same untalented artist, hung on the mustard-colored walls. The Hatter and Hare sat down at the table furthest away from the window and silently sipped their tea until the March Hare spoke up.

"This was all supposed to be mine one day," she said. "I had big plans for this tearoom. I was going to make it more for kids, like a place for dress up parties. This a Tudor style house. It already looks like something out of a fairytale." She smiled dreamily to herself, but then her grin faded. "But I know that's never going to happen." She set the teacup on the saucer and stared down at it as though trying to decipher her future by looking at the tealeaves. "Mrs. Liddell changed the will by now, I'm sure of it."

"I _am_ sorry," the Mad Hatter lied and he attempted to look sympathetic.

"Don't be." the March Hare replied. "I realized something about myself. I can adapt to anything-" She snapped her fingers "-just like that."

"Yes," Jervis said in agreement, "I know. You adjusted beautifully in Arkham."

She ignored his compliment. "We're going to need money in the future. I don't know how we're going to manage. All I know is that we can't just waltz in somewhere and get hired."

"I'm afraid that's quite true," the Mad Hatter said. "Even if we had beendeclared sane and officially released, it would still be next to impossible to find employment."

Harriet pushed the empty teacup aside. "You seem certain." That familiar crease appeared between her brows. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"I regret to say that there is," Jervis admitted. "I was temporarily released from Arkham and put in a halfway house. Unfortunately, I had difficulty in the real world. I couldn't get a job, you see… My life was ruined. It was all Batman's fault and I thought that maybe, just maybe, if I got Batman out of the way, I could finally live my life. One could say that it didn't work out."

"Nobody told me about this," the March Hare said.

"Nobody knew about it," the Mad Hatter answered back curtly. "It was hardly mentioned in the papers and the winged rodent kept quiet- Didn't want Gordon or anyone else to know that he was temporarily in my clutches. And I too kept silent. It was hard, I admit, not to boast that _I _had came closer to getting Batman then anyone else." It seemed most unfair and just the mere memory of it caused him to slam the empty teacup down. The bottom chipped and the handle broke off; Jervis swept the porcelain fragments from off the tabletop. "I could have chopped off that masked head of his. But my conscience had gotten the better of me and I decided to be merciful _to my enemy_…" Jervis spat out the last three words and shook his head at his own idiocy. "I have my reputation to think of and so therefore my colleges never learned about that unfortunate act of weakness."

"Seems like we've conveyed more about ourselves in the last half hour than we have over the last few months," Harriet said. She looked at him squarely. "Seems as though we really don't know each other."

"That's not true," Jervis said defensively. "I know a lot about you."

"Do you know my middle name?"

"Do you know mine?" He paused for a moment. "It's Lewis, naturally."

"I wish I could tell you that mine's Carol, but it's not. It's Hazel." She smiled a pert smile. "But let's not quarrel anymore. The point I was trying to make is that I can alter into anything. If we need to steal, I can become a thief. If you need an accomplice, I can become that too. Vindicator. Henchwoman. Villainess. I can be _any _of those things." She stood up and fastened her coat. "I know that I'm rash," the March Hare continued as her fingers fumbled with the top button, "but I can control myself. I can be unruffled. I can be composed. I'll be loyal, I'll be dedicated. I'll-"

"My dear March Hare," Jervis gently interrupted, rising to his feet. "It sounds like you actually _wish_ to partake in some wrongdoings. By all means, you can participate in all the crimes you like, just as long as they're minor. A bit of thievery here and some kidnapping there... Not only that, but you can also help me dream up a wondrous plan that will daze all of Gotham! We'll astound them all, you and I! But," the Mad Hatter added, shaking his head, "I will not permit you to fight that vile bat. Really, m'dear, don't look so glum! I know you're worried about me going back to Arkham, but if we're careful and take certain precautions, things will go splendidly. And besides, m'dear, I don't intend on staying in this wretched city for too long." He was careful to keep his voice low and soothing. Brazenly the Mad Hatter clasped Harriet's waist.

"I can be _other_ things," the March Hare murmured steadily. "Partner. Fiancé. Wife. I'll be devoted to you, Jervis," she continued almost pleadingly. "I will never, ever be like that Alice girl."

He didn't question how the March Hare knew about _her. _All he said was, "I know, m'dear, I know."

Jervis saw that there was a droplet of tea on her chin. Slowly, the Mad Hatter inched forward and kissed the amber bead away. He then drew back and searched her face to see whether her expression was one of joy or one of fury. The March Hare was breathing fast, but gradually her parted lips curved into a smile. Again, Jervis leaned towards her. He kissed her mouth once- just once- and that was all he intended to do because in spite of everything, Jervis still considered himself as a gentleman. But Harriet took it upon herself to take control. She snatched his lapels and yanked him so vehemently that his hat toppled off. Her lips collided against his. And then her fingers became entangled in his hair, twining and untwining his locks with an almost euphoric delight. Who knew that women were capable of being so indulgent, Jervis wondered. But women had always been an enigma and the Mad Hatter allowed himself to relish Miss March's enthusiasm.

The cuckoo clock chimed in the kitchen and reality set in. The instantaneously remembered that they were on the run and they were lucky that the police- or, worse yet, _Batman_- had not yet come crashing though the door. The two of them drew apart and it seemed as though nothing happened. Quickly, to make up for lost time, the Hatter and Hare made a mad dash around the entire tearoom, grabbing old-fashioned telephones, vintage radios, old windup toys, along with anything else that would be beneficial to their needs.

Jervis couldn't help noticing that everything had ridiculously high prices. He picked up gold-colored watch, polished it on his coat and pocketed it. He then chanted merrily, "_Lady dear, if Fairies may for a moment lay aside cunning tricks and elfish play. 'Tis at happy Christmas-tide." _The Mad Hatter expectantly waited for her to resume with the poem. Not a word. "Well? Aren't you going to finish?"

She was feverishly cramming an army of tin soldiers into an old leather satchel. "I don't know this one," the March Hare confessed and she looked furious at her own incompetence.

"Ah," Jervis said, almost offended. But he could easily forgive his March Hare for her unfortunate ignorance. Quietly, he murmured the last line of Carroll's seasonal poem. _"We would wish you, if we may, Merry Christmas, glad New Year!" _

_Author's Note: First of all I would like to thank Eduard Kassel, Kotahsouras, foxfire222, Majin Hentai X, and The Celtic Kid_ _for their reviews. I really appreciate it! Again, thank you! _

_I kind of made a blunder and I could just kick myself for it. It was just poor planning on my part. There's a reference to the Perchance to Dream episode in this chapter. Yet earlier on it seemed like this story was taking place almost immediately after the Mad as a Hatter episode. I originally intended for Harriet to be involved with the events of Perchance to Dream, but then I couldn't figure out how to do it. I've got a plan for The Worry-Men and Trial. With Perchance to Dream, however… I came up with nothing. So I decided that the whole dream-inducing thing already happened. So yeah, I messed up. _


	14. The HoityToity Type

The abandoned shoe factory wasn't an appropriate hideout. ("A hat factory would be frabjous," Jervis had said, "But a shoe factory… _That_ is entirely unacceptable.") The crumbling old townhouse wasn't a suitable place either. ("Too bland.") Nor the old clockworks shop. ("Agreeable lodgings, yes, as well as a tribute to the White Rabbit, but likely being occupied by a Mr. Temple Fugate.") Even the closed restaurant was out of the question: Dinah's Diner. Dinah, just like Alice's cat, the March Hare had pointed out. But the restaurant lacked glamour and therefore also unacceptable. Jervis mildly explained to Harriet that a villain's hideout embodied the villain. They had to reflect one's personal gimmicks, and a place that probably still smelled like hamburgers and pickles was entirely out of the question.

"And besides," the Mad Hatter concluded, "I will not, could not, will not, could not, take up residence in a place that once grilled greasy junk food."

Harriet mentally vowed that she would say something worthwhile the next time she spoke. At one time she would have sputtered her apologies like some simpering little underling. But she was the March Hare- the Mad Hatter himself had dubbed her that- and apologizing was beneath her. She knew that she had grown pompous, but really who could fault her? A sequence of events had furthered her reputation and the more established ladies of Arkham retold these events to the bottom-feeders. Exaggerated to the extent of being ridiculously farfetched, these rumors nevertheless created a sense of awe. Naturally the March Hare made no attempt to rectify things. She had power and was unwilling to let it go. She knew why Jervis attempted to retain his Mad Hatter persona while in Arkham and she even identified with Crane. Hateful as he was, Harriet understood his conviction that fear was power, not that she would ever stoop to his level.

Just days ago the March Hare had been struck by an abrupt realization: Poison Ivy was gone and so was Harley Quinn. She was currently the only woman on C-Block and that made her the highest ranked female in Arkham. As if in a dream, Harriet had kicked off the thin coverlet so that she could amble to the stone wall. Her fingers brushed against the engravings left behind by the cell's former occupant: HQ + MRJ. She felt those marks like she was reading brail, wondering if she was like Harley, wondering if she too was destined to become some villainous, wondering what her life would have been like had she been declared sane and released. Harriet probably would have been transferred over to a halfway house, and there she would have striven to please everyone. And then after that she would have settled down in a dingy apartment somewhere, a little bookworm unhappily gnawing into one novel right after another. Or maybe old Mrs. Liddell would have taken her back and she could spend her afternoons whipping up batches of cakes instead. But the Mad Hatter had prevented any of that from happening. He had seen potential in her and therefore plucked her out of the snare, and just in time too. It was the March Hare's relationship with the Mad Hatter that caused her to fail the hearing, and she was glad that she did.

"Forgive me, m'dear, if I seem persnickety" the Mad Hatter now said after a long period of silence. "You're tired. I'm tired." He glanced at the car clock. "And no wonder- It's four in the morning. Let us find a room, m'dear, and we'll carry on the search tomorrow."

Harriet was fully awake, but that did not stop her from pulling into the parking lot of a sleazy-looking motel. A neon light flickered on and off. "I'll get a room," she volunteered, unfastening her seatbelt.

The March Hare walked into the lobby where a shedding Christmas tree covered with feebly twinkling bulbs stood in the corner. She approached the desk with an air of causality and rang the small bell. A slovenly man shuffled over. "What do you want?"

"A room, of course."

"You alone?"

"My husband is waiting in the car."

"Awfully late, don't you think?"

"Which is why we need a room. My husband and I have been traveling, you see."

"Traveling, huh?" the clerk said suspiciously.

The March Hare raised her eyebrows. "Do you doubt me?"

"As a matter of fact, yeah, I do. You seem like the hoity-toity type." A cockroach scurried across the counter; the man squashed it with his fist then wiped his hand on his pants. "You might have noticed that we don't have real classy clienteles 'round here." He jerked his thumb towards the window; outside a pair of hookers were leaning provocatively against the No Parking sign. "People come here for either one of two reasons: they can't afford anything better or they're doing something they ain't supposed to be doing. And you sure as hell don't look poor to me, lady."

"I see," she said coolly. "Then perhaps I should take my business elsewhere."

"Look, lady, I don't care what you've done. Doesn't matter to me whether you've robbed a bank, stolen the Hope Diamond or blown up an orphanage. All I'm sayin' is that there's no need to come up with some phony-baloney story because I really don't give a rat's ass." He pushed forward a notepad and a pen. "Just sign here."

She took the pen. In lavish cursive she wrote Marsha O'Hare. And then she paid in cash.

The clerk handed her the key. "Room 106."

The March Hare briskly strolled out of the lobby. She nearly collided into one of the motel's customary squatters and stepped back, repelled at the idea of breathing in the very same air as that thing. Harriet glared at the streetwalker: flashy, gritty and probably diseased. The hooker, oblivious to the March Hare, smeared on a glob of fire hydrant-red lipstick without the use of a mirror. She smacked her lips; it sounded like a plunger unclogging a toilet. Harriet noticed that the prostitute had the audacity to flick her shameless eyes towards the Mad Hatter as he was removing the luggage from the trunk.

"Making yourself look pretty?" the March Hare asked sarcastically. "Thinking about approaching that nice gentleman over there?" Her tone turned waspish. "Don't you even dare." She seized the streetwalker's arm (she'd have to scrub herself clean afterwards) and ignored the gush of foul words that came pouring out of that mouth. "Don't you dare go near him." The March Hare released her. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a few crumbled up bills. "What's your price? Two bucks a bang?" Harriet contemptuously threw the money at the streetwalker's feet. "Take it and go."

Later, when she and the Mad Hatter were safe inside their room, and the blinds were drawn and the door bolted, Harriet ceased being the staunch lieutenant. She let down her defenses in order to let her more genial side take over. She was gracious, she was thoughtful, because that, she knew, was how the Mad Hatter liked her best. If only the Arkham ladies could see her now. Especially Flannery, that man-hating, tooth-yanking brute- She definitely would comment about how stupid it is to cater to a man's whims. But if Harriet had to choose between winning the admiration of those bottom-feeders or winning the admiration of the Mad Hatter- Well, guess who would come first in that little contest? Certainly not those scummy cretins. Harriet was better than them anyway. They were scum. The March Hare wasn't. They didn't have potential. The March Hare did.

Harriet decided that there was really nothing degrading about letting the Mad Hatter take control…occasionally. Jervis had a typical nineteenth century mindset it was vital for him to serve as the gallant, shielding gentleman. He knew exactly how a lady- a _proper _lady- should be treated. It was, in all honesty, one of his more appealing attributes. Harriet played her part beautifully, standing there all shy and demure, her fingertips tracing against the fading wallpaper with the palm trees scattered across it. The tropical pattern conflicted greatly with the icy weather outside.

The Mad Hatter peeled back the blanket and beckoned to her. Childlike, Harriet laid down in the bed.

"I assure you," he said as he pulled the scratchy blanket up to her chin , "if there was another bed or a couch, I wouldn't be taking such liberties." He was avoiding her eyes. "I just hope you can forgive my boldness," Jervis added. He glided to the other side, but did not get underneath the covers, instead choosing to lay on top of the blankets. He then reached over and switched off the lamp.

"Tomorrow we'll find a better place," the Mad Hatter said in the darkness, "and then we'll find clever, subtle little ways to earn money while we lie low… And after that-" he yawned "-after that we will perform a marvelous stunt. We'll be rich. We can flee from this city. We'll settle down near the ocean where the palm trees are real…"

The March Hare opened her mouth to protest, but decided against it. Later, but not now.

"And then… and then…" Jervis yawned again and became quiet.

"Hatter?" the March Hare whispered. "Hatter?" Silence.

Brightness given of from headlights penetrated through the blinds each time a car passed. Harriet used that light to study the Mad Hatter. She propped herself up on one elbow and gazed down at him. There was a certain intimacy about watching a person sleep. The March Hare used to stand by the glass barrier of her cell, often wishing that she was on the opposite side just so that she could gaze upon the Mad Hatter. The only person she could ever really see was Wesker curled up on the ground while Scarface occupied the bed. Sometimes, when the puppet was feeling charitable, the old man was allowed to have a pillow. The March Hare now drank up the sight of the slumbering Mad Hatter. Sleep made him look young, almost vulnerable. Perhaps it was how his head was tilted slightly to the side, his lips parted like a bewildered child's. Yet he was at least a decade older than her. The March Hare didn't know his exact age. There was a lot about the Hatter that she didn't know. But it didn't matter. None of it mattered.

He began to snore. The March Hare burrowed underneath the blanket, nestling closer to him, her face pressed against his shoulder and one arm flung across his chest. She was prepared to lie if he should wake up and comment about her bold behavior. Harriet would feign innocence instead of apologizing. She would wring her hands together and say that she had a nightmare about bats, and then she would discreetly bite the inside of her cheek in order to produce tears.

Outside a group of drunks were attempting to sing "Good King Wenceslaus." The March Hare shifted slightly, glancing worriedly at the man next to her. The Hatter was still snoring. She settled back down and closed her eyes. She began to focus on Jervis's deep breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. She still could not fall asleep and soon gave up. Eventually her mind started to whirl like a mouse inside an exercise wheel. Mice. Jervis once said that he liked mice and Harriet remembered her own little mechanical mouse. The March Hare missed her little toy animals and she soon she was thinking of ways to gain access to saws and wood in order to make some more. A lumberyard or maybe a theatre with a scenery shop. There was that one theatre that had closed just weeks before her arrest, the one that had been built in the slums in a failed attempt to rejuvenate the neighborhood.

"Dodgson's Theatre," the March Hare murmured in the Mad Hatter's ear.

_Author's Note: The March Hare's name was originally Marsha O'Hare. But then I watched the "Mad as a Hatter" episode a second time and realized that Dr. Cate's name was also Marsha. That's why I changed it to Harriet March. Now I wish that I hadn't._

_I want to thank foxfire222, Acemate, Kotahsouras, Numbervania and shisumi12 for their reviews. It really encourages me to keep on writing. Again, thank you! _


	15. Between Yourself and Me

"Mary Anne! The March Hare will be here any second!" No answer. "Mary Anne, do you hear me?" The mind-controlled hostage suddenly appeared with a tea-tray. She did not seem to notice how heavy it was. "Very good." Jervis hurriedly put aside the circuitry chips and exited the theatre's left wing. "I hope that you didn't forget the sugar like you did last time. Well, don't just stand there! Set it on the table! Did you remember to bring the newspaper?" Mary Anne removed the rolled-up paper that she had tucked underneath her arm. Jervis wrenched it from her. "You dim-witted, incompetent sack of turnips! Don't you know that a newspaper should be freshly pressed, not rolled up underneath your armpit?" He brandished the newspaper in front of her face; Mary Anne unflinchingly kept her deadpan stare. "Did you actually buy this newspaper, or did you just find it lying in the gutter somewhere, you senseless-" Jervis stopped when he read the headline. "Never mind," he said quickly. "Go and prepare supper. Be sure to cook it properly. If I wanted an inadequate meal, I'd return to Arkham." Mary Anne noiselessly retreated. Jervis seated himself at the table. He'd have to show the article to Harriet when she returned from her assignment.

He waited for her. And waited. And waited. Jervis anxiously drummed his fingers against the tabletop. It was a pity that this old place closed, the Hatter thought while looking around at the vast rows of empty seats. Dodgson's Theatre was undoubtedly a fine hideout, and now that they had electricity and running water (provided by the Mad Hatter bribing and blackmailing local utilities) the place was somewhat fit for human habitation. The table, placed on the stage and illuminated by spotlight, gave the illusion of a dining hall, and the moth-eaten curtains were like tapestries. But it wasn't enough. The whole array, everything from the arrangement of discarded theatre props to the mind-controlled servant, created a poor simulation of prosperity.

The March Hare suddenly appeared and nimbly clambered up on the stage.

"You're late, m'dear."

"Yes, yes, I'm aware of that." She joined the Mad Hatter. "It's amazing. I just walked in there and started working, and no one even questioned my presence! Oh, a few people introduced themselves- I guess they thought I had been hired at the last minute. But I did what you wanted, Jervis. I eavesdropped. I snooped. I listened to the _corps de ballet_ while I was working backstage. It's unbelievable how cutthroat those girls are, Jervis! Catty little brutes, all of them."

"Did you find an appropriate candidate?" His words came out harsher then he intended.

The March Hare's smile faded and she straightened in her chair. "I did," she said somberly, tilting her chin up.

"And?"

"And her name is Karen Anderson," the March Hare reported. "I've got her address right here." Harriet waved a piece of paper before stuffing it into her satchel. "She young and highly ambitious, but not talented enough to achieve stardom."

"Well, I can remedy that, now can't I? And what about the leading lady?"

"I took care of that too," the March Hare said proudly. "I found her lunch in the refrigerator. I dropped in some minced pieces of pink-gilled mushroom. It is enough to make her sick."

"Are you sure it was her lunch and not someone else's?"

The March Hare looked offended. "You're questioning my capability?"

Jervis bowed his head in a customary gesture of regret. "Forgive my impudence, m'dear. You have already demonstrated your usefulness and therefore I should trust you. But you must understand that I have always worked alone and relying on someone is something that I am not accustomed to."

The March Hare seemed appeased by this, but she still retained her decorous bearing. "Yes, I'm sure that the lunch was hers. Her name was on the container: Britta Taglioni. The director should be getting an unfortunate call from the hospital tonight. He will have to replace the prima ballerina." Businesslike, the March Hare leaned back. "The deed is done, Hatter. The rest will have to wait until tomorrow. Now let's change the subject."

"Very well," Jervis said and was relieved. He smoothed out the newspaper. "It seems that the press kindly wrote about us."

The March Hare brightened. "Really? Let me see." He handed the Gotham Times over to her and she began to read out loud. "_Arkham Asylum publicly announced today that the criminals known as the Scarecrow, Mad Hatter and Ventriloquist escaped custody on the night of December twenty-fifth. Three Arkham guards were critically injured during the breakout. Twenty-two-year-old Jud Jed Bird alleged that an inmate known as Harriet March was the one responsible for his cracked eardrum. It is suspected that March aided in the breakout. 'The Hatter was bragging about it,' said Brandon Snatch. Snatch claimed that he remembers the entire incident. 'The Mad Hatter was the ringleader. He used his mind control on me. Because of him, I almost murdered Jasper Walk,' said Snatch. Snatch received numerous bruises along with a fractured jaw. 'Walk was trying to stop me. That's how my jaw got broken. Walk hit me with his baton.' Walk was unavailable for questioning." _

The March Hare lowered the newspaper. "I never took the time to learn any of the guards' names," she said. "Jasper Walk. Isn't he the one that you and I hated so much?"

"I suppose so. I, like you, never learned their names. Of course, I never really considered them as individuals, just nameless monsters."

She continued to read. _"Harriet March, who was arrested last October for attempted murder, also escaped and is believed to be accompanying the Mad Hatter. Doctor Joan Leland stated that March suffers from paranoid schizophrenia, but refused to answer any other questions. According to Doctor Robert Williams, March is now extremely violent due to her connection with the Mad Hatter. 'She was dangerous to begin with,' said Williams, 'but she's much more aggressive now. It's no wonder that the Mad Hatter scoped her out. Harriet March. The March Hare. It just verifies Tetch's Alice in Wonderland fixation.' Newly appointed Doctor Hubert Zimmerman spoke out on March's behalf. 'I disagree with my colleagues about Miss March. She's just confused. She sees the Mad Hatter as an embodiment for everything she longs for.' Zimmerman was very outspoken against the asylum's recent actions. 'They express concern about the Mad Hatter's impact on Miss March. That's understandable. So what do they do? They stupidly place her in C-Block where she had full exposure to Gotham's most dangerous criminals.' Zimmerman later announced his resignation from Arkham."_

"Strange," the Mad Hatter remarked. "Jonathan gave me the idea that that Hubert fellow was an idiot, but I must say that he made a fairly decent remark."

"There were some truths to that article," Harriet said in agreement, "but there are a lot of untruths too. And I don't like being portrayed as an impressionable little girl." She turned to the next page. "Interesting. _Penguin apprehended after burglarizing art museum. _Very interesting." She carefully tore out the black-and-white photo of Mr. Oswald Cobblepot and dropped it in her leather satchel.

Jervis took a sip of tea; it had grown cold. "Are you hungry?"

"Very."

"Mary Anne!" The hostage came at once holding two plates. Jervis never bothered learning the woman's real name, just like he never bothered learning the names of any of the Arkham guards. Mary Anne was just splendidly fitting.

"Do attempt to cheer up, Mary Anne," the Mad Hatter said. "You'd still be sitting in a cardboard box somewhere if it wasn't for the March Hare and I. You now have the privilege of being our servant, which, I dare say, is a lot better than being a bag lady. Don't you agree?"

"Yes," Mary Anne answered automatically.

"You _are _happy, aren't you?"

"I am."

"Well, then, stop being so dour!"

Mary Anne smiled as though invisible hooks were tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"No, no, no! I'd rather not see that! Dear heavens, it looks as though the Joker got his hands on you! No more smiling, Mary Anne. But a song… Yes, a little song would be nice."

Mary Anne began to sing, "_Speak roughly to your little boy and beat him when he sneezes. He only does it to annoy because he knows it teases."_

The Mad Hatter participated in the song. "_Wow! Wow! Wow!"_

"_I speak severely to my boy. I beat him when he sneezes. For he can thoroughly enjoy the pepper when he pleases." _

Now it was the March Hare's turn to chime in. "_Wow! Wow! Wow!" _And then she gave a little whimper of pain.

"What's wrong?" Jervis queried.

The March Hare was looking down at her finger. "It's nothing. Just a splinter that I got last night," she said softly.

"Let me see."

The March Hare obediently extended her hand. Jervis inspected the injury underneath the bright spotlight. The splinter was embedded deep inside her index finger. "Do you have a needle?" Harriet reached into her satchel and found one. "Do you have a lighter?" She handed him a box of matches instead. The Mad Hatter struck a match and sterilized the needle. "You've been doing much too much lately," he scolded gently. The Mad Hatter placed her arm firmly on the table with the palm facing upwards. He leaned forward and he prepared to remove the splinter. "What exactly are you doing in that shop room?"

The March Hare winced. "It's a secret," she said.

"_A secret, kept from all the rest, between yourself and me_-" He began to dig deeper so that he could extract the thing. The March Hare suddenly leapt up with a high-pitched yelp.

"Oh, forgive me," Jervis cried and he kissed her wounded finger. "Forgive me, m'dear! I never meant to hurt you! I know how you love to fabricate wondrous things, my dear Harriet, but I must say that you ought to be more careful! Look at your hands!"

They were covered with calluses and abrasions.

"Maybe if you wore gloves," the Mad Hatter suggested. He withdrew the needle. "There! All better! Now I suggest putting some peroxide on that."

"Gloves get in the way and make my hands clumsy," the March Hare said. "But I'll be wearing some tomorrow when we visit Miss Anderson. I want to look nice."

Jervis assumed that _wanting to look nice _meant she would be wearing a cocktail dress of some sort. He was thoroughly surprised when the March Hare appeared early that next morning looking similar to a circus ringmaster. Like theatre props, several costumes had been discarded inside the old playhouse. The antiquated attire complimented his own outfit and Jervis was quite satisfied. At that moment the Mad Hatter wanted nothing more than to parade her around as if to say, "_I too can have appealing henchwomen." _

Unfortunately that would have to wait. He and the March Hare drove to Miss Anderson's residence. There was really nothing remarkable about her home; it was just an ordinary house in a middleclass neighborhood. When they arrived, Harriet's knuckles rapped sharply on the door in cadence to the old tune of "Shave and a Haircut." The door opened and a pretty, but very infantile-looking, girl appeared.

"Hello, Karen," the March Hare greeted cheerfully.

"Um…hello… Do I know you? Oh, wait…" the girl's eyes widened in recognition. "You're part of the crew. I saw you putting the finishing touches on the scenery yesterday. What are you doing here? And how did you find this place?"

Harriet ignored Miss Anderson's questions. "Are you aware that the star of _The Firebird _was taken to the hospital last night?"

"Britta?"

"That's right. And you, Karen, are going to take her place."

The young ballerina shook her head in denial. "Britta has an understudy." Karen looked down at her old, worn-out shoes. "And I'm really not that great a dancer, at least not yet anyway"

"Yes, but with a little help, you can dazzle the world. Everyone will be so mesmerized by your dancing that the leading part will be yours. And we can help you."

"_We_?" Karen echoed stupidly like a dimwitted child.

"Yes. The Mad Hatter and I."

Karen became aware of Jervis's presence. She gawked at him in disbelief. And then she covered her gasping mouth, but that did not prevent the garbled squeak from escaping. She tried slamming the door; the March Hare blocked it with her foot.

"Don't kill me! Don't hurt me!" She staggered back into the house. The Hatter and Hare quickly pursued her. "Get out! I'll call the police!"

"Oh, you stupid, _stupid _little girl!" the March Hare shouted out in exasperation. "Weren't you listening? We're trying to help you! We're offering you the chance of a lifetime! And get away from that phone!" She yanked Karen by the arm and hauled her to the sofa.

"The March Hare is quite right, Miss Anderson," the Mad Hatter said quietly to the bawling ballerina. "If you would just listen. There. That's better. You see, Miss Anderson, I recently created the most frabjous mechanism-" He held out his hand; the March Hare reached into her satchel and gave him an ordinary-looking headband. "This simulates brainwaves, making the wearer more agile and more dexterous than usual. Normally, it is up to me to do the controlling. However _this _particular microchip relies solely on classical music. Once the music is played, the chip will send waves to the brain. The brain will then force your limbs to move in synchronization to the music." He looked at the girl's tearstained face. "But you don't believe me. Well, I can't say that I blame you. But perhaps _this_ will convince you."

That was her cue. Harriet immediately stepped forward so that Jervis could place the headband on her. "Now, have you got a radio, Miss Anderson? Ah, yes, I see one over there." He switched it on and turned the dials until coming across the classical station. Ponchielli's _Dance of the Hours _was being broadcast. Instantaneously the March Hare stood up on her tiptoes. Slowly, one long leg rose in the air and she began to twirl. Her movements were graceful, elegant, beautiful… Even the most professional dancer would seem ungainly in comparison. Jervis turned off the radio; the March Hare became still.

"Don't you see?" he asked the girl quietly. "Don't you see what I'm trying to offer you?"

"It will be like a fairytale," the March Hare said breathlessly. "Like something out of Hans Christian Anderson, Miss Anderson."

Karen gazed longingly at the headband. "What's it going to cost me?" she said at last

"Fifty dollars."

"Fifty dollars? That's it?" The ballerina looked relieved. She leapt up and pulled the cash out of her purse. "Here, here take it!" She shoved the money into the Mad Hatter's hands.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you," the Mad Hatter said politely, tipping his hat. "Oh, and let me give you this, just in case there are any malfunctions." Jervis pulled out a small business card. "And let me give you a word of warning-" His smiling face became stern. "_Do not notify the police_. You see, I have the power to make a person's dreams come true. But, as my friend Harvey Dent would say, there are two sides to every coin. I can easily turn your life into an everlasting nightmare. Don't forget that I can make a person perform the most heinous of crimes. Imagine some mild-mannered gentleman walking down the street. Suddenly something comes over him and before you know it, he attacks a poor, defenseless ballerina. Tsk, tsk. Such a pity." The Mad Hatter again smiled at the trembling young girl. "Good day to you."

The Mad Hatter left and the March Hare followed after him.

"You were splendid," he said as he closed the door behind him. Jervis took hold of her chin and kissed her lips. "I am so very proud of you."

_Author's Note: I'm having so much fun with this story. I know it takes me forever to update, but that's because I'm really trying to put an effort into it. I keep questioning every little aspect. "Are they in character? Is the dialogue natural, or does it sound forced? Does this chapter make sense or is it confusing? Okay, the newspaper in Gotham City… Is it the Gotham Gazette or the Gotham Times?" I have the tendency to drive myself crazy._

_As for the March Hare's costume… I have it 100% visualized, but I didn't want to describe every single detail in this chapter. Picture Zatanna's outfit. Instead of black, the March Hare's waistcoat is cranberry-red. She wears a dark blue bowtie, white blouse that is slightly low-cut, tan-colored hourglass-corset and black close-fitting pants. Bunny ears will be included later on. _

_I re-watched the "Mad as a Hatter" episode. Alice's voice was driving me nuts. I knew I that I've heard it before. So I did some research. Alice is voiced by Kimmy Robertson and she's actually been in a lot of stuff, including an episode of the Simpsons. (She voiced Milhouse's girlfriend, Samantha Stanky.) She's also the voice of the feather duster from Beauty and the Beast. Yeah, this has absolutely nothing to do with my story, but I was really shocked when I made the discovery. I couldn't resist sharing it._


	16. It's My Own Invention

Britta Taglioni's unexpected illness had created an uproar, but it didn't take long for entire company to forget about the former firebird's hospitalization. It seemed as though a dazzling meteorite had flown on stage to replace the old star. Only one person refused to be awed. The March Hare sat in the last row and watched as the entire cast doted on Karen. To her, Karen was about as impressive as a satellite, just a manmade object mistaken for a shooting star. The most infuriating thing was the fact that that untalented little brat actually had the nerve to gloat. She loved the attention; it showed on her face, her smug little face that needed to be slapped. The March Hare ached to expose the incompetent little snot for what she was. But she forced herself to sit still. She just sat and watched and took her annoyance out on the seat cushion by digging her nails into the heavy fabric. After a while the March Hare noticed that Karen was relapsing. Her fingernails withdrew as she eagerly leaned forward. The firebird's timing wasn't so perfect anymore and her movements were not as fluid. After the first blunder, Karen flushed and looked around, but nobody except for the March Hare seemed to notice. But soon it became clear to everyone because by the time rehearsal was over, Karen had lost her vivacity.

The March Hare then slipped into Karen's dressing room and waited. It didn't take long for Karen to rush in. She locked the door behind her and yanked off the headband. It made a faint _crackle _sound. A few sparks came out. And then nothing.

"Looks like you need a new one," the March Hare said.

Karen jumped. "What are you doing here?" she demanded. "Isn't it bad enough that you barged into my house this morning?"

The March Hare was taken back. "Well, well, well, feeling high and mighty, aren't we?"

She began to eye the ballerina's glistening red and gold attire, suddenly irked by how young and pretty the girl appeared. "Look at you, all pretty in your costume. You think that you're better than me? Do you expect me to admire you, just like all those idiots out there? I'm not impressed by the attitude," the March Hare went on slowly, wanting to see the brat tremble in her tutu, "So knock it off. I'm actually here-" the March Hare reached into her satchel "-because I picked out a get-well card for Britta. I thought you might like to be the first to sign it, considering the fact that you're the one who's benefiting from her misfortune." She tossed the card onto the makeup table.

"I'll get to it," Karen said dismissively. "But first, you need to fix this." She shoved the headband at the March Hare. "You probably understand all that mumbo-jumbo about brainwaves."

The March Hare threw it over her shoulder.

She then pointed a threatening finger. "First of all, I don't take orders from little girls_. _Second, I have nothing to do with mind-chips. If you need one fixed, you talk to the Mad Hatter, not me. Third-" she lightly smacked the ballerina's face "-never refer to the Hatter's brilliance as _mumbo-jumbo_. Understand?" The ballerina cowered even though the slap couldn't have hurt (it was to humiliate, not to inflict pain) and the March Hare was glad to finally receive a reaction.

"The Mad Hatter gave you a business card with his number. I suggest you find it." She looked over her shoulder before leaving the dressing room. Sobbing, Karen had dumped the contents of her purse onto the makeup table.

She drove home after that. Pleased with herself, the March Hare sashayed through the emergency exit and approached the stage. Mary Anne was standing on top of a very tall latter as she unscrewed a burned-out light bulb. The March Hare wasn't sure if the mind-controlled maid was too busy to see her or just incapable of reacting without the Mad Hatter's jurisdiction. Whatever the reason, Harriet was ignored. The Mad Hatter, busy in the theatre's wing, was absorbed in his work. He was tinkering with his newest project, and his face was inching closer and closer to the pill-sized mind chip. Discarded rough drafts, which overflowed from the trashcan, now laid scattered on the floor like oddly-shaped snowballs. The March Hare waited for Jervis to acknowledge her, but after a while the March Hare unperturbedly retreated to the scene shop.

There, she yanked off the tarp that protected her own unfinished project. Bigger than anything she had ever created, the life-sized figurine sneered at her. The March Hare glanced at one of many newspaper clippings tacked to the wall. The nose wasn't right, she decided, and she removed her gloves, stuffing them into her waistcoat pocket. Carefully, the March Hare whittled down the nose until it was a fairly decent representation. Fully satisfied, she took a careful step back and checked the inner mechanisms by pressing the remote control button. A blade shot out, but only halfway. The March Hare pressed another button; the blade retracted. She opened the panel on the automaton's back.

This isn't a weapon, Harriet told herself as she fine-tuned the wiring, so there was no reason to feel guilty. It was just a means of self-defense, no different than having a guard dog. It wasn't like she was going to use it to run a rampage through the city.

She then heard a faint cough. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Mary Anne at the doorway. The mind-controlled maid was holding a silver tray with a piece of paper folded neatly on top.

Harriet took the note and opened it. In the Hatter's untidy scrawl she read: _Please meet me in the Looking Glass Room. _The Looking Glass Room was a studio with a small platform stage, the wall behind it being a solid mirror.

Harriet threw the tarp over her automaton, making it look like a squat, potbellied ghost. Mary Anne escorted the March Hare down the hallway. The March Hare yanked her gloves back on to conceal the scrapes and the splinters. She didn't want the Hatter to again reprimand her for her negligence. Harriet smoothed away the creases as Mary Anne opened up a door.

The maid curtseyed. "Miss Hare is here, sir."

"Very good," said Jervis, who was reclining regally on the old battered couch. He waved his hand dismissively. "Now go."

"Yes, Mr. Hatter."

The Mad Hatter gestured ceremoniously towards the armchair. "Have a seat, m'dear." The March Hare sat on the shabby thing as if it were a throne. "Everything still going according to plan?"

Harriet folded her hands neatly on her lap. "Karen got the part, Jervis." She couldn't help remembering the girl's general obnoxiousness. Fuming, the March Hare picked up a leftover program from _Camelot _and wrung it between her hands. "Untalented little toad, parading around like that. Such a miserable little beast- Thinks she's _so_ special-"

"Oh, I agree," the Mad Hatter said jauntily, "and if there's one thing I hate, it's a brassy female. But the microchip- did it die?"

"It did."

"And did Miss Anderson panic?"

The March Hare smiled puckishly. "She did."

"Well, hopefully I'll be getting a phone call."

The phone did ring that night. Mary Anne entered the Looking Glass Room with the cordless phone sitting on her silver tray. Jervis reached for it.

"Mad Hatter speaking. Ah, Miss Anderson! How delightful to hear from you! The March Hare told me that you got the leading part. Congratulations! Oh, I see…

Yes, I thought that this would happen. I must confess that the microchip I gave you earlier was really nothing more than a trial product. But don't despair, don't despair- I managed to work out all the kinks in order to create something much more satisfactory, not to mention a lifetime guarantee. It's my own invention, and I must say that I am really quite proud of it. I suppose you are interested in purchasing it, Miss Anderson? The March Hare and I can deliver tonight. Of course, this is going to cost you." He paused for a few seconds. "You have the fifty dollars, you say? I must inform you, Miss Anderson, that there's been a price increase." There was another pause. "Oh, I'd say about twenty thousand."

The March Hare could hear the ballerina scream, "TWENTY THOUSAND!"

"That's right. And I expect to receive the money in one single payment."

"YOU'RE MAD!"

"Of course I am. And I'm getting madder by the minute. I've wasted a good deal of time trying to help you. And if you knew time as well as I do, you wouldn't talk about wasting it. Now you refuse to pay me for my trouble! You are most ungrateful!"

"But-"

"Now it's _my_ turn to ask _you_ some questions. You do realize, Miss Anderson, that you are sacrificing fame and fortune by refusing to pay the full amount? It will cost you a pretty penny, but it will be well worth it_._"

"I CAN'T AFFORD IT! Please, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! But I just don't have the money!"

"Such a pity," the Mad Hatter said, now holding the phone away and rubbing his ear. "Well, perhaps someone else will be a little more appreciative and pay me for my services. Do you have any recommendations? I know the March Hare spoke of a young lady named Irina Pavlova-"

"NO!" Karen hollered into the phone before the Mad Hatter could hang up. "You don't understand! I have to have it! I _need _it! Do you have any idea what's going to happen to me without that mind-chip? I'm the best dancer the company's ever seen! They can't find out the truth!"

"Then you have a rather crucial decision to make, don't you?" the Mad Hatter responded coldly. "Out of sheer kindness, I'll give you a few more hours to come up with the money."

The Mad Hatter and the March Hare visited Karen later that night. Without delay, Jervis asked for the twenty thousand. Karen gave him about half of what she owed, all in one hundred dollar bills.

"I don't have much in my bank account," the ballerina said pleadingly, "plus I've borrowed all that I can from friends and family."

"Have you considered selling your car?" Harriet demanded. She was getting annoyed by the brat's flimsy excuses.

"I don't have a car- I take the bus."

An uneasiness began to stir in the her belly. For the first time, the March Hare looked at the interior of the ballerina's house. She saw the mismatched furniture, the outdated appliances. Harriet had assumed- just _assumed_- that the girl had money. She remembered old classmates whose rich daddies allowed them to take dance lessons. Impulsively, Harriet thought that Karen was just another spoiled brat whose parents wanted to see her flounce around on stage. The snooping, the spying, the poisoning, the threats, the blackmail, the hours Jervis spent working on his mind-chips (the March Hare now cringed guiltily) was all for mere couple thousand dollars.

Outraged, the March Hare roared, "_YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT YOU HAVE NOTHING?" _

"I have _this_!" Karen pulled an envelope out of her purse. "I can give you tickets to the show! Here you go! Box seats!"

"The Mad Hatter can't appear in public, stupid girl!"

"Now, now, m'dear," Jervis intervened. "It's high time we did something that normal couples do." He turned towards the recoiling ballerina. "A night at the ballet would be simply delightful. It's very kind of you to give us tickets! Forgive the March Hare. She's just concerned about my safety." He consolingly patted Harriet's arm and said to her, "It will be quite safe, I promise you! You'd be surprised by how unobservant people are. It's not like the Joker or Two-Face. _They _can never go out in public, at least not without causing a panic." He jokingly wagged a finger at her. "And really, m'dear, didn't you tell me that you could control that temper of yours?"

The March Hare twitched and willed herself to smile amiably.

"Much better." Jervis glanced back at the ballerina. "Are you going to give us any more presents, Miss Anderson?"

"I don't have anything else… Wait! Yes I do!" She left and returned with a small jewelry box. "I've got my grandmother's ruby ring. She told me that it's over a hundred and fifty years old." Miss Anderson withdrew a large red-stoned ring. "I bet it's worth a fortune!"

"Wait. Let me see that." March Hare appraised the ring. "You're wrong. This is a garnet, not a ruby. It's not solid gold either, just gilded." She inspected the band. "Look here. There's a 'D' engraved in the metal. That insignia was used by Davenport Jewelers, which was founded during the 1920s. And Davenport Jewelers manufactured hundreds of rings. That right there decreases its value. This ring is worth about a hundred dollars, tops."

"How do you know that?" Karen whispered anxiously.

Regardless of the girl's submissive tone, Harriet's head swiveled toward Jervis. "You see what I was talking about, Hatter? Listen to her question my judgment- I told you that this girl was regular little snot." The March Hare then glared at the ballerina. "I know because I spent three miserable years of my life working at an antique shop."

"Oh…" The ballerina looked even more deflated. "I'm sorry. I thought it was made in the eighteen hundreds."

"Don't apologize," the March Hare said with a sarcastic smile. "It's not _your_ fault that your grandmother is a liar." Karen made a gesture as if to retrieve the ring. Harriet did not miss this. She gave another mocking smile and deliberately dropped the ring into her satchel. "That necklace is nice. May I see it?"

"You lied to me," Karen accused, blinking back angry tears. She removed the heart-shaped locket from the jewelry box, giving it to Harriet. The March Hare opened the locket and crumbled up the photograph inside. "You told me that this would be like a fairytale!"

"It's not like I'm asking for your firstborn child, Karen," Harriet said placidly. The Mad Hatter moved beside her, swept aside her tresses and fastened the locket around her neck. The March Hare turned the pendant, admiring how the light reflected off the silver surface. "And besides, you don't read too many fairytales, do you, Miss Anderson? Bad things always happen to pretty little princess." She let go of the trinket. "All of your jewelry is junk. You know that, right?"

"But I don't have anything else! Please, please just let me have that mind-chip! I'll do anything!"

"Anything, you say?" the Mad Hatter asked and he discreetly began to twirl one of his circuitry cards. "Well, you are still more than a few thousand dollars short." He swiftly placed the card behind her ear. Karen became as still as a waxwork. "But perhaps _this_ can make up for it. I didn't want to resort to common thievery, but you give me no choice." He clapped his hands briskly. "Go and steal whatever valuables you can find." Karen turned and treaded out of the house.

"Where's she going?" the March Hare asked. "The jeweler's? The art museum?"

"Next door. I don't think anyone is home- the house is entirely dark." He laughed at the March Hare's displeased expression. "I know it's not very imaginative, but I _am _attempting to be somewhat low-key, at least for now. Most likely the robbery will be attributed to petty thugs and therefore there won't be any drastic investigations."

Now that there was no longer an audience, the Mad Hatter casually seated himself on the sofa.

"There's really nothing for us to do but wait for Miss Anderson's return." He turned on the television. A reporter clutching a microphone appeared on screen.

"Summer Gleason reporting live at the amusement park where yesterday Daniel Mockridge, famed creator of 'Riddle of the Minotaur' was held captive by a man who has been identified as Edward-"

A faint tinkling of broken glass distracted them both.

"Just Miss Anderson shattering a window," Jervis said pleasantly. He patted the seat next to him. "Do sit down, m'dear."

But the March Hare remained standing. She stared at the door from which Karen had exited and stubbornly refused to act contrite. "I messed up," Harriet added matter-of-factly as if her blunder was no big deal.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I messed up," Harriet repeated. "It was my responsibility to find a suitable candidate and I picked someone who can't afford diddlysquat."

"You picked someone who was silly enough to fall into our trap. Therefore, _I_ say that you succeeded. Now stop fretting and sit down, or else I'm going to use my mind control on _you._" He said this last sentence with gentle humor.

Harriet resented the implied threat.

"Would you really do that? Would you really use that device on me?"

Now it was Jervis's turn to be offended. "Brainwash my delightful companion? Certainly not! My beamish March Hare, I was merely jesting! No," he continued gravely, shaking his head, and he seemed to be talking more to himself now. "I will not turn my March Hare into some soulless thing, unless, of course, she threatens to leave me. It will pain me to do so, but I would rather have her as an empty shell than not have her at all."

He stood up and advanced towards the March Hare. Slowly, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. There might have been another circuitry card hidden up his sleeve. With just a quick flick of the wrist, Jervis could easily place one on her. The March Hare knew too, though she didn't want to admit it, that the Mad Hatter could possibly turn on her. If he ever doubted her affection for him… Harriet shuddered. All Jervis had to do was wait for the right opportunity to plant a mind-chip. Then he could turn her into some vapid, unresisting puppet. She had a mental image of herself, blank and vacant-eyed, standing next to Mary Anne, a pair of robots doing the Mad Hatter's bidding. Harriet shook the image out of her head. As long as Jervis never doubted her, there was really nothing to fear, was there? And besides, Harriet was resolute on being the Hatter's companion. It was taking a chance, a great chance, but it was one she was willing to take. Her feet remained planted firmly on the ground. She did not shrink away as the Mad Hatter's fingers combed through her tresses.

The front door suddenly opened and closed. Karen held a bulky pillowcase which clanged every time she took a step. The girl stared ahead of her, her eyes glazed and unblinking. Even though she was oblivious to her surroundings, Karen's presence was still an invasion of privacy. Jervis moved away from Harriet. He withdrew the circuitry card; Karen blinked like a person waking up from a deep sleep.

"Your prize," the Mad Hatter said and presented her with a small jewelry box. Karen held out her hands with fanatical greed. Her entire face lit up and she let out a crazy sort of laugh. The March Hare knew what was in there, but that mind-chip, sitting there in that pretty velvet box, looked similar to an engagement ring. She didn't like it. The Mad Hatter was too close to her, too close to the pretty girl with the dancer's body. The March Hare swiftly darted between Karen and the Hatter. She gave the ballerina a lethal glare.

"Congratulations. Now you can dance and flaunt on stage. How happy you must be" She flung the pillowcase over her shoulder. "Let's go."

"You've certainly shown a great deal of animosity towards Miss Anderson." The Mad Hatter threw up his hands in mock exasperation. "Really, they way you women compete with one another! Females are the most perplexing creatures and- m'dear, allow me to take that." Jervis snatched the pillowcase from out of her hands. "I wouldn't be much of a gentleman if I allowed you to carry that heavy bundle, now would I? But, as I was saying, you women are so puzzling. It's not like me to cite someone other than Carroll, but I must say that there's nothing more truthful that the phrase _hell hath no fury like a women scorned_. After all- and please don't take this personally- I wouldn't want to get on _your _bad side."

She stopped in her tracks. "What do you mean?"

"You might one day decide to beat me with a walking stick," he said without the slightest hint of sarcasm. The Hatter smiled. "It seems, m'dear, that we are both taking risks just by being together."


	17. Fighting For The Crown

The unmistakable sound of crunching pottery came from underneath his shoe. Jervis automatically lifted his foot and stepped back. Kneeling down, he inspected the shattered fragments. There was a sparse amount of light, yet it was enough to be see the blue-and-white pattern. The Mad Hatter recognized the motif from that old teapot he and the March Hare had swiped from the tearoom. Logically, this was Mary Anne's doing. Bungling, insufferable fool… Leave it to her to muddle even the simplest of tasks. The woman couldn't even clean up her own mess. Jervis bypassed the shattered teapot; he would deal with Mary Anne later. The Mad Hatter made his way through the theatre's corridors. He stopped briefly at the scene shop room. Jervis glanced down, expecting to see a golden glow spilling out from underneath the door, but instead there only darkness. He put an ear against the door. Silence. His fingers curled around the doorknob. Jervis then stopped. It would displease the March Hare if he entered without permission. The Mad Hatter released the doorknob and continued down the hallway. He entered the Looking Glass Room.

The March Hare was there. She sat on the floor with her back resting against the chair as she partook in a game of Solitaire. Jervis could see the Ten of Diamonds clutched in her hand. Harriet looked up when the Mad Hatter entered. Her frame tensed, and she waited for him to speak as that determined look Jervis knew so well appeared on her face. She was anticipating an order. There was no need for sabotage or spying today. Jervis nodded cordially and the March Hare immediately relaxed. She smiled warmly. "Hatter."

Dismissing the couch, Jervis sat on the floor. The March Hare ended her game of Solitaire. She jumbled the cards together and began to shuffle. She then dealt them out, eleven for him and ten for herself, and placed the rest of the deck face down.

The Mad Hatter pulled out his wallet. "I want you to purchase something to wear tonight. Here." Jervis handed her a few wadded up bills. "I know that women like pretty things, and pretty things cost a pretty penny. I won't have _my_ March Hare looking shabby, especially since we'll be around Gotham's well-to-do tonight." The Mad Hatter began arranging the cards. "I thought perhaps we should have supper at the Top of the Crown before seeing _The Firebird_. We'll dine on lobster and fancy soup. You know, m'dear," he added thoughtfully, "that's exactly how it's going to be when we're wealthy. Extravagant meals. Servants- satisfactory ones, not bumbling dolts like Mary Anne. We'll live in a mansion with a ballroom, and I'll see to it that the ballroom has a checkered floor, like a giant chessboard. There will be a garden too, and green lawns with a hedge maze, and a hutch filled with white rabbits. After all, my March Hare has been especially good. She needs to be rewarded, does she not?"

He placed the Five of Spades next to the deck. The March Hare grabbed his hand before he could even let go of the card. She pinned it down and leaned forward until their faces were only inches apart. "You're trying to entice me with grand promises. I don't like that."

Jervis blinked in surprise at this unanticipated reaction. "Now, really, m'dear! I just want to you happy so you…" His voice trailed off as he attempted to wiggle himself free; the March Hare tightened her grip. He couldn't help being both amazed and unnerved by how strong she was.

"So I won't run off," she finished for him. "You think I'll stay if I'm happy and then you'll never have to control me." She spoke with grudging acceptance. The March Hare's grip then slackened. "You're very insecure."

The Mad Hatter's head jerked up and his meekness vanished. Jervis now had the sudden urge to plant a micro-chip on her. He didn't mind strong women, just as long as they conducted themselves properly. There was a difference between being strong and being impudent, and impudent women needed to be put in their place. The March Hare must have sensed the danger because she swiftly leapt to her feet.

"Now, see here," the Mad Hatter said indignantly, rising up off the floor, "this has nothing to do with insecurity and I highly resent you suggesting-"

"Then you're very untrusting," the March Hare said rather sulkily. "And after all I've done for you too. It's not enough, is it? You just don't trust me."

"Don't trust you? _Don't trust you? _Oh, your devotion seems unquestionable, I admit, but who knows what will happen in the future. Women are such fickle creatures. Has it ever occurred to you, _m'dear-" _(He said this last world rather sneeringly) "-that maybe it's _women _that I don't entirely trust? That maybe all those years working _alone_ and living _alone _has made me develop some misgivings about them? All right, maybe not entirely _alone._" He chortled._ "_It's true, m'dear! I've stumbled upon all sorts of ladies before encountering _you_. Yes, yes, gold-diggers who fawn over their rich employer at company parties, relentless superiors who deride you at every given opportunity, silly little secretaries who run off with younger, better looking men-"

"I told you that I wasn't going to be like _her, _Tetch._" _the March Hare seethed.

"Don't," the Mad Hatter said slowly, "ever address me as Tetch." Jervis's fingers brushed against a circuitry card hidden in his pocket. "I've spent the last few years of my life being addressed as just _Tetch. Heads will roll, Tetch. Where is Alice, Tetch? It's time for therapy, Tetch._"

"And what about me, Hatter? I've been striving to prove myself my entire life. Trying to prove that I'm smart. Trying to prove that I'm worth loving. Trying to prove that I'm sane-"

"But you're _not _sane-"

"And here I am, trying to prove that I'm committed to both you and your criminal lifestyle."

Jervis again chuckled humorlessly. "Did you know, m'dear, that the March Hare and the Mad Hatter had a quarrel in March? Who won that fight, I wonder? The March Hare is quick and strong, but the Mad Hatter is the one with the advantage. Though I must admit that the March Hare could do her share of damage," he added fairly.

"Yes, the March Hare could indeed," Harriet agreed. Her glowering face then softened. Smiling dreamily, she glided to the mirror.

"Wouldn't it be curious if I could just walk through this thing?" the March Hare asked. She put her palms against the glass. "Curiouser and curiouser, as you would put it. But why would I want to do that? I'm already in Wonderland. The normal world is there." She tapped the mirror. "Just on the other side. I can slip in and out of Wonderland, you know. I can behave normally. I have before, haven't I? Pretending to be a stagehand, going out to buy grocieries… I _could_ go back permanently, that is if I really wanted to. But would the inhabitants accept me? No, they'd probably just monitor me, waiting for me to do something bizarre. They'd probably shun me too. No, I _can't_ go back. I don't even _want_ to go back. The March Hare is much better off in Wonderland."

She began to adjust the cuffs of her waistcoat. "And you know, Hatter, for someone who's read _Alice in Wonderland _so many times, there's something you're forgetting."

"Oh, really," he said sardonically. "And what's that?"

"That Alice was the one who left the tea party. _She_ left, but the March Hare remained."

"You're right," Jervis said and his throat tightened painfully. He strove to collect himself. "I was harsh. I won't be anymore." The Mad Hatter suddenly seized her gloved hand, clutching it between his own. "Will you be a good girl and forgive me?" He repeatedly kissed her fingertips. "Say it." He tightened his grip in desperation. "Say that you'll forgive me."

The March Hare considered him for a moment.

"All right," she murmured at last. "I will. And for the record, Jervis-" she inclined her head " -_I _trust _you." _

She must have, because it would be so easy to place a circuitry card on that bowed head.

"It's okay if you don't trust me," the March Hare continued. The words were hardly out when the honey-sweet face turned sour. "No, that's a lie It's not okay. It annoys me."

Jervis almost expected another flare of temperament. He was greatly surprised when the March Hare instead bounded forward, throwing her arms around his neck. "I'll make you trust me, that's what I'll do! And I'm going to make you proud, Jervis! I'll prove myself to you!"

"Just behave yourself. _That _will make me happy." Jervis smiled and gently withdrew. He tapped her nose; it involuntarily twitched like a rabbit's. He chuckled to himself. "Of course, it will make me even more happy if you prepared yourself for tonight." He again gave her some cash. "Here. It's not a reward, mind you, just an unbirthday present."

Hours later he and the March Hare were feasting on lobster and oysters. They were enjoying the thrilling ambiance. Or at least he was; the March Hare looked watchful. Her posture was taut and her unblinking eyes scanned the restaurant. She looked rather pretty in her wine-colored gown. But pretty ladies in gowns should not be acting like bodyguards. It just wasn't proper.

"Isn't this frabjous, m'dear?" Jervis asked, hoping to incite a smile. "Isn't this better than frozen TV dinners and microwaveable meals?"

"It's grand," the March Hare muttered through clenched teeth. "Wonderfully, wonderfully grand. But what if someone recognizes you?"

"It's quite safe for me to be out in public," the Mad Hatter assured her. "As I said before, people are utterly unobservant." His words were confident, but deep down Jervis had similar reservations, though he certainly wasn't going to let her nor anyone else know it. Not wanting to stand out, Jervis had discarded his whimsical getup in exchange for the standard, former attire.

The Mad Hatter lowered his voice. "I'll have you know that we're not the only criminals to eat here. Look over there." He discreetly pointed to a nearby table; the March Hare's eyes flicked in that direction. "One of Rupet Thorne's henchman. I also know that the Penguin thinks very highly of this place."

She perked up and glanced around anxiously as if hoping to catch a glimpse of the notorious crime lord. "I've heard that he has very refined tastes."

"Indeed," the Mad Hatter said dryly. "You know, I've always liked the name of this place. The Top of the Crown. I can't help thinking of the a certain battle." He began to chant,_ "The Lion and the Unicorn were fighting for the crown. The Lion beat the Unicorn all around the town. _A Crown. A symbol of power. Oh, I can understand why those two creatures would compete for such a thing. Every villain in Gotham wants to reign supreme. The Penguin, the Joker and Two-Face are the most thriving criminals in Gotham. They have it all: henchmen, money, fine cars... The world is at their fingertips."

"What about the Scarecrow?"

Jervis shook his head. "Jonathan has the potential, but not the desire. He scorns glamour. It's a never-ending cycle. The man uses fear toxins to steal money and uses that money to produce more toxins. But, as I was saying, I would like to fight for power. It was quite an accomplishment for me to get that money from Miss Anderson. And yet twenty thousand is nothing more than pocket change to some of my more successful comrades." The Mad Hatter suddenly drew back and grinned briskly at the advancing maître d'. "A loaf of bread is what we chiefly need."

"Bread" the maître d' echoed stiffly. "Wouldn't you rather have dessert?"

"No," the March Hare said with a winning smile. "We want bread. We like bread. We love bread. We could eat bread all day, every day, if we could."

"Indeed."

The maître d' went away and their smiles faded.

"So you see, m'dear," the Mad Hatter continued in a hushed tone, "I was hoping to establish an empire for myself before my retirement. And I want you to help me. The things I had talked about earlier- the mansion, the servants, everything- that's all a part of my dream. And yes, you're a part of it too." Jervis pulled out his pocket watch. "Come now. The ballet starts in about an hour. We don't want to be late, now do we?"

_Author's Note: I am so, so sorry this took me so long to update. I received such wonderful reviews, but 2012 was a tough year. Thank you for your patience. Hopefully chapter eighteen won't take me too long. This was actually going to be a much longer chapter, but I decided to make two short chapters rather than one long one. _

_One of my favorite episodes is Make 'em Laugh. The best scene involves the Condiment King at the Top of the Crown Restaurant. I find it hysterical that nobody really acknowledges the whacko in getup UNTIL he starts shooting people with a ketchup gun. Even the people he was sharing an elevator with are totally oblivious. So yeah, if a guy like that can wander around Gotham, I'm pretty it's safe for an un-costumed Mad Hatter to go out in public. _


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